Eternal Knight
by Stickelbatz
Summary: In an abrupt turn of events, Reagan's world is changed forever. Forced to disguise herself as a boy, she is thrown into the charge of one of the most notorious Knights. As his squire she struggles to stay alive and protect her secret. Lancelot/OC
1. Chapter 1

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story, I only own Reagan. Sometimes I think she gets sick pleasure out of making my life as difficult as she can. Don't believe me? Just ask Lancelot. **

**This story is set 5 years after the battle if Badon hill, it is AU because none of the Knights are dead. I don't have the heart to write a story without any of them in it. This story also owes a **_**very light**_** hand to the novel; **_**Velvet Song**_** by Jude Deveraux, as it was my inspiration but not my template. **

**Special Thanks to my friend Leigh who was the first to edit this nightmare of a chapter, and to Homeric for being an awesome beta! If you haven't checked out her story "Fragile" I suggest you do so promptly! It's fantastic. **

Chapter 1 (prologue)

The crisp spring air was scented with mint, rosemary, and something particularly sweet and pungent. A young, dark-haired girl sat knee deep in a small garden behind a crumbling cottage, its thatched roof rotting and dipping into the house, the whitewashed stones grey and flaking. The door, once stained a happy shade of blue, hung off the hinges haphazardly as if someone had once tried to fix it, but instead had only succeeded in making the situation worse. The plants that grew around the cottage and those surrounding the stone walkway, however, were bright and cheerful. In fact, they were tended to with loving care, as if the current inhabitants worried more about their welfare than they did the structure they flanked. The mockery was made even more apparent as the cottage sat on the outskirts of a tiny yet boisterous village, the high white walls of which cast tall shadows over the home, making it seem shrunken and singularly alone.

It was true that the small house had fallen into disrepair, but it was all Reagan could do to keep it from falling down around her and her father's heads. She wasn't good with tools and had neither the skill nor the patience to patch things with any degree of skill. If she could whack it a few times with a thick piece of wood and it didn't break or disintegrate to dust, then she figured it was just as good as remedied. Her father had obviously long ago stopped caring about the state of the house, she thought bitterly. The only things he cared about were the tavern maids and the temptation of the local gaming establishments. She did not like to guess which preferred diversion her father had dropped more "borrowed" coin on over the years, or of his whereabouts on this particular night.

Reagan shoved the blunt blade of her dagger deep into dark soil, twisting it about to loosen the root system of a particularly difficult batch of Meadowsweet. Even though dusk was settling around the small garden and the air had a distinct bite to it, she still had to raise her arm to wipe at droplets of sweat on her brow, paying no mind to the streak of black dirt that it left behind on her pale skin. Wrapping her small fingers around the base of the plant, she gave one forceful yank and it popped out of the ground, pelting her frayed work dress with dirt and rocks. If Father William hadn't specifically asked for dried Meadowsweet leaves, she wouldn't have bothered with the pesky plant. As it was, the recent surplus of expectant mothers in the village made the demand for its pungent blooms soar. If it helped to aid the pains of childbirth, as she was told, who was she to complain? Besides, she knew she would be handsomely rewarded with a satchel of herb seeds if this batch proved to be enough for their summer stores. She wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of the fragrant white buds and promptly sneezed. Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, leaving another smear of dirt on her face, Reagan sneezed again. Finally frustrated, she tossed the Meadowsweet to the ground; the bothersome plant was giving her a headache.

Since she'd been given work as a laundress, Father Daniel and Father William had very kindly taken her under their wing after discovering her natural curiosity and hunger for learning, not to mention her sharp tongue and quick temper, which they patiently tried to rid her of. However much of a headache she might be to them, they had taken it upon themselves to teach her to read and write--something she'd taken to like a duck to water--but there was always work to be done in between lessons. Reagan mended their robes, sewed new alter dressings, and baked them sweet bread on holy days, if they weren't fasting. Father William provided her with books and encouraged her abilities with plants, even going so far to supply her with seeds. Father Daniel conducted her lessons, which sometimes lasted well into the afternoon. She was also given one bronze coin a month for her wages. It wasn't the coin that mattered; Reagan sighed and looked up at the pink painted sky, her hands itching to touch another one of those beautiful books. The illuminated texts always held her rapt attention, and the lessons she received were, in her own opinion, worth more than any amount of money.

Although, her life of cleaning and learning had its drawbacks, being with the two priests day in and day out had made her a bit of a shut-in. It never bothered Reagan; she had no real friends to speak of, mostly because she was to unforgiving to keep any for long, and certainly no suitors came calling. She was too short, too thin, and had a bit of a reputation for being a shrew. Reagan paid it no mind when the village gossips would talk behind their hands, whispering pitying words to who ever would listen that she'd become a crone before her time, having no man to look after her. It didn't matter; she had no man now, and she knew she was better off than most of the girls her age. Many girls in the village had three babes hanging off their hip and a husband that was either more trouble than he was worth, or if they were lucky, dead. All she really had to fret about was a rotting cottage and a wastrel father. She was certainly one of the fortunate ones.

The night was clear and beautiful for this time of year; mid-spring always had the most beautiful sunsets, and the rolling green hills behind her dilapidated cottage turned russet as the last vibrant rays drifted behind them. Reagan stood in her meager garden and surveyed what stock she should harvest next. The wild sage was barely mature, but the peach roses were magnificent and the sprigs of wormwood and rosemary would fetch her a nice price at the market. Making a mental tally of what she needed to do the next day, she brushed off her dress and began walking toward the house holding the meadowsweet as far away from her as she could.

Once inside, she lit a candle, placing it on the warped surface of the table. Reagan wrapped the roots in a piece of cloth and hung the meadowsweet upside down over the soot-covered hearth to dry. She walked across the dirt-packed floor to a washbasin and poured water in to the chipped bowl. Rinsing her hands and washing her face, she neatly tied her dark hair back--the long tendrils always found their way out of her plait during the day and she hated having them fall in her face. She gathered a meager supper of stale bread and moldy cheese from the nearly barren cupboards and sat eating silently, musing that her own company was getting tiresome. Perhaps she should make her way down to the tavern and see if her father was there? Or perhaps she could indulge herself in a cup of spiced wine, but that would mean breaking into her secret stores of coin. After being forced to hide the coin sack from her father more than once, she did not think it wise to let on that she had any money to speak of, let alone give him the opportunity to spend it on drink. Sighing, she cleaned up and walked to the back of the house, removing her dress and shaking out her blankets before climbing into her pallet and wrapping herself under the covers as best she could.

It seemed only moments before she was woken by a repetitive clinking sound from somewhere in the house. Reagan concentrated on the noise and realized that it was the distinct clang of metal on metal. Fearing her father was again helping himself to her money, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, holding down her ire until she could confront him. This time she didn't know if she'd be able to hold her tongue.

The sight that greeted her, however, was completely different from the scenario that she'd imagined. Angus, her father, sat at the worn table, his yellowed tunic torn at the shoulder and his face ruddy in the candlelight. He raised watery blue eyes up at her as she stood in the doorway. A lock of thin grey hair swept down over his shiny brow as he fidgeted with stacks of coins on the table.

He took a shaking breath and asked in a rough voice, "How are you my daughter?" Reagan had to admit that she was surprised by the question, almost as much as she was surprised that her father was alone. Usually he was accompanied by a whore who reeked of lavender water and ale, or by Rullus, first son of the family of nobles that lived on the large estate at the crest of the village. The family Waldenham was powerful, and they knew that the survival of the lower classes depended on them. They owned three quarters of the land in the village; the rent was steep but their protection was priceless. More than once they'd protected the village from rogue Saxon and Pict attacks. It was only recently, and under King Arthur's rule, that the Saxons became more of a threat than the Picts.

Angus had fallen into keeping company with Rullus after her mother had died. It was under this influence that Angus had squandered the family's inheritance, driving them out of the middle class and into poverty in three short years. Reagan could not stand it when Rullus accompanied her father home. It made her uneasy when she would find him watching her closely, almost too closely. She also could not tolerate his forceful presence or the way his beady black eyes would constantly follow her. He was a large, round man with a bit of a potbelly, and the double chin of an overfed nobleman. He liked his drink, and it was rumored that he also liked to use his fists on a woman if he didn't get his way. He had tried cornering her once in the garden while her father was passed out from too much drink. The memory of it was burned into her brain; she feared she'd never be rid of it. His sweaty hands and foul breath made her feel sick. She'd barely managed to escape, giving him a swift kick between the legs and scratching at his eyes before fleeing. Reagan still wished she'd managed to claw them out. Thinking of it made her stomach roll. Pushing all thoughts of that wretched man aside, she focused again on her father.

"I am well, father," Reagan replied, not being able to take her eyes off the money her father's restless hands played with. "Did you have a good night at the tables?" she asked, not quite keeping the contempt out of her voice. It would appear Angus had won a king's ransom but why was her father so sullen? He studied the coins, picking them up before letting them slide through his fingers to hit the table one at a time. Angus sniffled and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his tunic, and Reagan realized her father was crying.

He usually cried when he was in his deep into his cups, but this was different. He didn't seem drunk; on the contrary, he seemed almost lucid. An air of foreboding hit Reagan and settled deep in her belly, that familiar knot tightening and twisting as she watched the flash of sliver coin in the candlelight. She cautiously sat down opposite her father and asked, "Where did you get the coin, father? Did you win it or are we further in debt? What have you put up for collateral now? We have nothing left!" Her panic at being at the debt collector's mercy once again was not misplaced.

Angus sniffled again and pushed himself up from the table on wobbly legs. It was then that Reagan noticed how frail and old her father looked. His arms, once all muscle and sinew were now thin and angular, his legs, long and strong like her own, now resembled the branches of the weeping willow in the garden, and dark purple circles shadowed his once-bright blue eyes. How had she gone so long without noticing her father had been neglecting not only her, but also himself? She wished that he would sit down. Perhaps she could bring him some of the cheese and bread she'd supped on earlier that evening, but he stopped her before she could reach into the cupboard for so much as a plate. His hand encircled her arm and he looked at her with a strange, almost sad, resignation that she'd never seen in him before.

"Go put on something nice to wear, we're expecting company any moment now. Can't have you flouncing about the house in your night dress." Reagan narrowed her eyes at her father and yanked her arm free, her ire rising again, along with a sneaking suspicion of whom their late night visitors might be.

"Who are we _expecting_, father?" But it appeared Angus had no further patience for her questions.

"Go put on a dress, Reagan." When she hesitated he barked, "Now!"

Always one to question authority, but at the same time intelligent enough to know when not to argue, she turned on her heel in one swift movement, the blanket around her shoulders swirling behind her. Reagan reached her room and grabbed her brown day dress; the thing was old, and patched so many times it didn't resemble the once pleasant dress it had been. She only had two garments, and her work dress was still dirty from the garden. Looking at the pitiful dress, she sighed wistfully: all of her fine dresses were a fond memory now. She'd sold them for pennies to pay off one of her father's collectors. Thinking of the man in the next room, she wished now that they'd taken him to the stockades. Reagan returned to the main room to find, much to her surprise, Rullus and one of his men sitting around the table, drinking one of the last of their flagons of wine and browbeating her father the only way the disrespecting nobility could.

"Ah, so the lovely Reagan is at home," said the fattest one, the fine silks of his cloak gleaming in the dim light of the candle, his black hair slicked backwards away from his face and a large jeweled ring adorning his left hand.

"I told you she was here, Rullus, she's _always_ here," her father muttered from the corner. Reagan managed to give Rullus something that resembled a smile and skirted around a large man at the head of the table. Reagan recognized him as the blacksmith's apprentice, a tall opposing figure whose massive arms were crossed over his even more massive chest. She was not surprised that Rullus would have such a brute in his company. Tentatively, she approached her father.

"Please do something about them, you know I –"

"Are you so anxious for me to take her off your hands, Angus?" Rullus interrupted. Reagan turned to face the portly noble, not being able to disguise the disgust and confusion on her face.

"Take me off your hands? Father, what does he speak of?" She looked back at Angus and fisted her fingers into the skirt of her dress, already dreading the answer her father might give her. A cold laugh pierced the silence of the tiny cottage.

"You have not told her? Oh Angus, you bloody _coward_, still afraid of your wildcat of a daughter?" Rullus pushed himself from the table and sauntered over to her. Reagan could feel his oppressing presence behind her and still she could not move. Rullus reached up and wrapped her hair in his fist, yanking her head back and forcing her body to bump into his. "You're to become my mistress." He breathed into her ear as she desperately tried to move away, his wine-soaked breath and his threatening grip on her hair making her recoil.

"Your mistress?" Reagan didn't want to contemplate the idea. She was to become his _mistress_? His _whore?_ Not if her life depended on it, and she had a distinct feeling that it did. Her instinct was to run, but first she needed answers. Anger fueling her bravery, she rammed both of her elbows into Rullus' soft gut. A pained whoosh of air came from him and he immediately released her. The blacksmith's apprentice, Paul was his name, suddenly moved to Rullus'\ side and glared at Reagan, the hostility in his gaze making her shiver. The two men, one short and one tall, loomed over her and she felt trapped. It wasn't until her father grabbed her shoulder that she remembered that he was still in the house, that she wasn't alone. She turned to him--her expression, she knew, was desperate, but she wanted him to tell her it wasn't true. That one of her worst nightmares hadn't come to fruition. But the answers she needed weren't there; the sad resigned expression her father had worn earlier was back in place, coupled with a trace of guilt in his eyes. Angus realized she was frightened and Reagan watched as he took a deep breath, rubbing a hand over his craggy features as though steeling himself for the inevitable: her father knew that there was no use keeping it from her any longer.

"I sold you today to Rullus for 50 silver coins. That is where I got the money, Reagan. I needed it, I'm sorry, I…had no choice." She felt her knees give way and she swayed on the spot. It was ironic, she thought, that her father, with so few words and with so little feeling, could seal her fate in that one moment. With one last bitter look at her father, she bolted for the crooked door. And as she was running away from the cottage and her new master, to whom she would never surrender to willingly, Reagan realized with a sort of twisted finality that her life would never be the same again.

**A/N: Please Review when you a get a moment, I value the opinion of others and if it helps in making the story better I'm all for it! Flames will be used to roast marshmellows.**


	2. Chapter 2

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story, I only own Reagan. **

**This story is set 5 years after the battle of Badon hill. It is AU because none of the Knights are dead. I don't have the heart to write a story without any of them in it. This story also owes a **_**very light**_** hand to the novel; **_**Velvet Song**_** by Jude Deveraux, as it was my inspiration but not my template. **

**This story will be an eventual Lancelot/OC and slight Galahad/OC paring. **

**Once again, many thanks to my friend Leigh for the initial edit of this chapter and to Homeric for being such a great beta. Without their help this chapter would have been a mess. Any and all mistakes are completely my own. **

Chapter 2

Reagan could not exactly recall how she managed to get out of the cottage that night. Nor could she clearly remember how she made it virtually unscathed, suffering only a torn dress, a rather nasty black eye, and a split lip. Much later she found herself inside the rectory huddled in the storm cellar surrounded by rows of earthenware jars and cobwebs.

Taking a deep breath she knew that Paul had chased her into the village. She had darted down an alleyway close to the church and slid herself belly first through the narrow window that led to the cellar, praying that he would not find her, and he hadn't. Now, the moon was the only thing to light the bare opening above her and the small damp space she crouched in.

Breathing heavily, trying her hardest to still the fierce pounding of her heart against her ribs, Reagan knew her only option now was to wait. Although it wasn't an easy prospect for someone who had very little patience, she knew that if she could remain out of sight she might manage to protect herself.

She didn't know how long she sat in the cellar of the rectory waiting as the minutes, hours, seconds ticked away in a torturously sluggish progression of time. Her legs began to ache and her cheek throbbed in pain, yet she waited for any kind of sign that the coast was clear so she could crawl back out the window, fetch her shawl and coin sack from its hiding place and make a run for it.

She didn't know where she should go or how long she could stay hidden, but she knew that she had to get as far away from the village and Rullus as she possibly could.

Just as she was pondering whether she should go north or east, a scratching sound came from the doorway six feet in front of her. Reagan heard the click of a latch catching and choked back a scream as pale yellow light flooded the cramped corner she had folded herself into. She tucked her face into her arms and prayed whoever had found her wouldn't kill her when a familiar voice hit her disbelieving ears.

"There you are!" Father William's withered; friendly face loomed out of the darkness toward her. Reagan could hardly suppress her relief at having one of her beloved priests find her.

"Rullus has half his men scouring the village looking for you, they've already been here twice." Reagan pushed herself up off the floor and clutched at the torn shoulder of her dress. Father William came closer and held the candle aloft, motioning for her to follow him out of the cellar and into the living space the two priests shared.

Reagan hesitated slightly and he knew her reasons why, "Trust me, my child, they are gone for now and brother Daniel is keeping watch on the grounds outside, should they return to make more empty threats."

Reagan tried not to laugh at the thought of old crotchety Father Daniel pacing the yard of the church, clutching his rosary and saying prayers for Rullus' useless men.

Father William coaxed an unwilling Reagan into the warm room and sat her down on a pew across from the brazier. She watched as he set the candle down and approached her gently, taking hold of her chin and inspecting her sore left cheek.

She knew that it would be black and blue in a few more hours though, at the moment, she suspected it looked a rather nasty shade of red. At least, she thought, the dull metallic taste of blood had finally faded from her tongue; she licked the cut on her lip and winced as she did so.

Father William shook his head in reproach, then with stiff measured movements went to the water basin, gathering a cloth along the way.

"Is your rheumatism acting up again? Why won't you chew the leaves of the primrose like I keep suggesting? Surely that should help, if not willow bark…" Her voice trailed off as he returned and pressed the cold wet cloth to her left eye. "Ouch!" she yelped, grabbing at the cloth.

"Keep it there, the cold with help with the redness. I shall say five Hail Marys and ask God to bless you with quick healing during tomorrow's mass."

Father William sat down next to her and ran a hand through his graying hair. "How do you find yourself in these messes, Reagan?"

As reluctant as she was to tell the priest the whole story, she knew that he and Father Daniel were her only allies in the village, and enlisting their help might be the best course of action she had in her flimsy plan of escape.

As she began to retell the tale, she watched as Father William's animated face took in all of the information. When she finished, he was standing near the brazier, his hands held out toward the warmth.

He didn't say anything to ease her anxiousness; he seemed to steel himself against something, and there was a tightly coiled air about him that made Reagan curious as to what he was thinking. Breaking the silence, he turned about and faced her with an expression she could only gather was incredulity.

"He sold you? Your father _gave _you to that--God forgive me--_swine _for coin?"

"Yes," she answered bitterly, "once I found out all I could do was run, there was no other alternative for me." The priest nodded and continued to pace in front of her.

"So now that you have escaped, what is the next step in your plan?" Reagan shrugged her shoulders and gave what she thought was an obvious answer.

"I go back to the cottage, sneak in somehow, get my cloak, some food, and the rest of my coin--if my father hasn't found it--and head east…or north…whichever direction suits me. I'm hoping to find work as a laundress somewhere." He nodded and folded his arms across his chest, his grey eyes boring into hers.

"And you expect to do this undetected? God forgive me, Reagan, but half of Rullus' men are outside looking for _you!_ What did you think would happen? That someone might stumble across you and _not_ throw you back to the dogs?"

She bit her lip and immediately regretted it as it began to bleed anew. She dabbed at it with the cloth and thought about how complicated her life had become in a few short hours. Why couldn't she have stayed asleep? Maybe none of this would have happened. As she sat there dreading her next step, Father William's pacing in front of the brazier almost making her dizzy, someone knocked on the door leading to the main room of the church.

Reagan jumped to her feet and Father William pushed her into a dark corner of the room away from a clear view of the door. She held her breath as he reached the door in quick strides and cautiously opened it.

"It's only me, William, don't be foolish!" Father Daniel pushed the younger man out of the way and closed the door behind him tightly. "She's here, isn't she?" It was more a statement of fact than a question. When Father William nodded, Reagan stepped out of the shadows and Father Daniel breathed an open sigh of relief.

"You're all right now, girl?" he asked, worry evident in his tone.

"Yes, I'm well, Father. Not without a few marks but I shall live to see another day, I assure you." She gestured to her cheek and lip, still trying to maintain decorum while clutching at her torn dress.

"That is all well and good, my child, but I fear that you should leave at once." Father William, alarmed, turned on the elderly priest,

"But where would she go? She's been sold to Rullus and I would rather see her dead than at the hands of that…Brute. He is no God-fearing man: there is no telling what he is capable of." Reagan grimaced at his words; she couldn't imagine what she'd be subject to if she were forced back into the nobleman's company.

"Be that as it may, brother, there is a reward out for her."

"A reward out for me? But of what worth would I be?" Reagan asked, surprised. Surely Rullus wouldn't go so far as to offer extra coin to get her back.

"You are of great worth, Reagan." Father Daniel answered, a trace of fondness in his voice. "Be that as it may, Rullus made an announcement not minutes ago in the town square, that anyone who finds you and returns you to him is to be given ten silver coins."

Father Daniel folded his arms behind his back. "I must say though, he sported a lovely gash on his forehead which I believe was bleeding merrily on to his fine cloak." He made a funny choking sound and she suspected he was suppressing a snort of laughter.

"Will probably require stitching, though I shall not be the one to assist in that, I assure you!" He shook his head in mirth and continued to pace, which did nothing to ease her worry. Reagan knew that if there was a bounty on her head there was no stopping a greedy villager from delivering her to Rullus' door if she were to leave now. Ten silver coins was an amount that some of the villagers never saw in a lifetime. It was practically a fortune.

Father Daniel turned toward her and addressed her frankly; it was something she could always count on him to do, and the priest was never one for mincing words.

"He's declared you a Witch, told whoever would listen that you used your devil given woman's ways to ensnare him, and when he tried to resist you, you defamed the church and smote him even further with your powers."

Reagan shook her head in disbelief: a witch! The thought was preposterous. Anyone who knew her knew that she held her beliefs and virtue close to her heart. It was one of the only things she had a real claim on.

Now this ignorant bully of a noble wanted to ruin her reputation just so he could get his grimy hands on her. It was obvious that he would stoop to any level to get her, and she knew that if it was within her power, she would never let that happen. Her hatred of him burned bright and intense.

If he wanted to drag her good name through the mud by declaring her a Witch then she would fight Rullus, fight back with whatever she could do. Her anger was a fierce thing to behold and this fat, lazy noble had crossed the line one to many times with her.

"Was this before or after his fist met my face?" she shouted, her voice shaking with rage. Reagan fisted her hands at her sides, her knuckles going white as she tried to contain her temper. "Maybe it was before he dragged me to the ground outside my home, tearing my dress when he tried to…to..."

She spluttered but she couldn't finish the sentence, the memory so fresh she could feel his heavy body still atop hers, could still feel his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her shoulder as he grabbed at her. If she hadn't thought quickly and if there hadn't been a large rock handy, she knew what would have happened and she thanked God that it hadn't.

She felt Father William's reassuring grip on her shoulders and he steered her once again to the pew in front of the fire. Reagan took a deep shuddering breath and raised her eyes, blue and bright with anger, to the priests.

"I will never go back to him willingly, so let him chase me, let him throw his coins at the masses. I will never be his, no matter the distance, no matter the amount." Father Daniel nodded his approval, taking a slightly shocked Father William aside. Reagan was left to contemplate her outburst and wonder if she was going to be able to live up to her words.

She watched as the two talked in hushed tones, leaving her to her own thoughts. Her cheek was sore and she raised a hand to her face, feeling the puffy, tender skin. She waited for the priests to finish their discussion, which she could tell wasn't an easy one: their body language spoke volumes and added to the tension in the small, warm room.

She looked at the rip on shoulder and became fully aware of her terror of what could have happed to her at the hands of Rullus. Maybe it was her training from the priests that made her believe that the nobles had no right to treat others they way they did. She had right a right to peace and happiness, a right to her own coin and to work the garden if shewished.

In her mind, God gave no one the power to take that away from another. After the evening's events, though, she had to wonder if there was any safe place for her now. Thick hot tears of rage and frustration threatened to well up from deep inside her, capped only by the fact that she didn't want to make a scene in front of the brothers.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Father Daniel approached her, bending down so she could look into his eyes, the wooden cross hanging around his neck swinging into her line of vision. She took a deep breath and readied herself for whatever they would have her do.

"Come with me, my child, I think we have a sufficient plan to help you."

Looking up at Father William he gave her an encouraging smile and she followed, feeling a bit like a lamb to slaughter. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I think that the clothing will do just fine!" Father William clasped his hands together in obvious approval of his handiwork. Reagan stood wearing a pair of tan breeches, a coarse faded-yellow undershirt that covered her bottom, and a dark red tunic that smelled unpleasant and was stained in a couple of places she'd rather not think about.

"Yes, but we have to give her a pair of boots or different shoes." Father Daniel began rooting around in the donation bin for something suitable for her feet when he popped his head up out of the wooden box, shooting a glance over his shoulder at her.

"And something needs to be done about her hair. We can't have her trotting about Waldenham in boy clothes with the hair of a fine lady." Reagan's eyes grew wide and she reached up for her plait.

"My hair?" She swallowed and gave a stricken look at Father William, "you mean to cut my hair?" She never thought of herself as a vain person but if she were allowed one conceit it would have to be her luxurious hair; it had never been cut in her life.

She briefly thought of protesting, but before she could summon the will to do so she was pushed back down on to the pew and her hair was gone before she could say one word about it. Father William dangled the braid in front of her, delighted at how easily he had sliced her hair with her own dagger.

She reached for the braid and told herself not to cry, that it was only silly hair and that in time it would grow back. Father William noticed her distress and patted her on the shoulder. "Look at how it curls at the ends!"

Trying to make light of the dire situation, she touched a shaking hand to her shorn locks and had to remark at how light her head felt. If anything it would be easier for her to run now, as no one could catch her by the hair and pull her back.

"Yes, these ought to do the trick!" Father Daniel pulled out a pair of brown knee-high boots that laced up the front, worn but in good shape. Reagan slipped them on, tying them tightly, and tucked her pants into the tops of the boots so she didn't show any leg.

She slowly started walking around the room, trying to get used to he freedom the boys' clothes allowed her. The binding on her breasts was tight, but she would learn to get used it. She kicked into the air and spun about - what wonders breeches were! No wonder boys could leap and run amok so easily. Girls always had to worry about their skirts. She twirled about and her hair fell loosely in her face, tickling her cheeks.

The brothers looked on at what they had done with pleased expressions and Reagan knew that it had been a wise decision to let them disguise her as a boy. Now, with a good cloak and proper caution, she could probably walk freely through the village front gates, past Rullus' men and no one would be the wiser.

"Tomorrow is market day, I'll hide you in the back of the wears wagon and get you somewhere far away from the village. Somewhere you'll hopefully be able to blend in with the crowd." Father William said quietly. "From there you'll be able to decide where you want to go."

Reagan nodded and prayed that the plan would work. Father Daniel had agreed to stay behind and conduct morning mass; everyone in the village would attend and the Waldenham family, including Rullus, would be in attendance. She and Father William would try to make their escape then.

It almost seemed too easy, and Reagan began to doubt if they were underestimating the nobles. Father Daniel came over and clasped her hand with his gnarled fingers. She couldn't help but think over the last few hours, and realized that this was all happening because of some nobleman's whim.

Some man's lust had forced her into this situation and she didn't think she'd ever felt so angry, her anger pushing her to wonder if perhaps she could take revenge on Rullus' kind. She would overcome this problem somehow, someday-- of that she was positive--and she would make sure that no noble ever tried to put his claim on her again.

"Don't fret my child, things will work out, you'll see. God has a way of looking after those in his care." He winked at her and she couldn't help but smile back, mindful of the cut on her lip, and winced as her sore cheek twinged in pain. Whatever tomorrow morning held, Reagan knew that this was a turning point for her. A second chance and no matter what, she wasn't going to let herself get caught in another nobleman's snare.

**A/N: Please review when you get a moment, I really do value my readers opinions and if your suggestions make the story better than I am all for it! Also I'm not a Catholic, so If I got anything terribly wrong, I apologize. Like I said before Flames will be used to roast marshmallows. Apologies to Sian for the last chapter and it's long paragraphs. I've tried my best here to make them shorter.**


	3. Chapter 3

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story, I only own Reagan. **

**This story is set 5 years after the battle of Badon Hill, it is AU because none of the Knights are dead. **

**This story will be an eventual Lancelot/OC and slight Galahad/OC paring. **

**Once again I have to thank the dynamic duo of Homeric and my friend Leigh. Without their editing skills this story would be a disaster:)**** Any and all mistakes are completely my own.**

Chapter 3

The following morning Reagan pulled at the hem of her red tunic nervously. She put a hand to her stomach where a knot had taken up residence, twisting painfully. Father Daniel took note of her anxiety and spared her a kind glance before getting himself ready for the Sunday morning mass.

Her eyes followed him as he went about lighting the candles and getting the various texts ready for the sermon. Reagan took a deep breath, the binding around her breasts straining against her ribs.

She sat up straight on the hard pew, her black cloak pulled closely around her shoulders, the hood hiding her newly shorn hair as she stared up at the great oak crucifix hanging over the main alter.

There were a million thoughts and doubts clouding her mind and she knew that what ever the near future held for her, she would try to make it on her own as much as she could. It was unheard of for a woman to have the ability and opportunity to take care of herself, but even though her new disguise was uncomfortable and would take getting used to.

Reagan realized that being a boy--or appearing as one--opened new doors for her, providing new opportunities she'd never before had the chance to consider.

As soon as the threat of being declared a Witch was dismissed and the bounty on her head was forgotten, she might be able to return to Walendham and to her previous life. While she wasn't going to hold her breath on that ever happening, she wanted to make the best of her current bleak situation.

It was agreed upon that she wouldn't change her first name, as it was used widely for both boys and girls across the country. She doubted anyone would question the honest inquiries of an orphan boy named Reagan trying to find work.

It was getting others to believe she was a boy that was going to be tricky, and she knew that she would have to be extremely careful not to get herself noticed. Activities she took for granted daily--relieving herself, bathing, walking, and even talking--had to be constantly taken into consideration.

Privacy and secrecy were now two necessities she needed to hold onto with a firm grasp. It was only now, because of her new appearance, that she wished she had some sort of training in battle. She was terrible with a blade, nicking herself more times than she could count with her dull dagger alone.

She couldn't imagine what she'd be like wielding a larger sword, and she certainly didn't relish the thought of trying to learn archery as her aim was terrible. Actually, the thought of handling any kind of weapon left her unsettled. Reagan had the distinct feeling that she would probably end up hurting herself more than the person she was trying to defend herself from.

Father William came and sat down heavily on the pew next to her, jarring Reagan out of her thoughts, and she jumped despite herself. She took another deep breath and tried to settle her nerves once again, aware that she would need to learn to control her anxiety if their ruse was going to work. It would appear suspicious to anyone if she remained as paranoid as she felt at the moment.

"Are you ready?" He asked gently. She turned to him slowly and met his steel grey eyes with a look of flinty determination.

"Yes."

"Good, lets get started then, shall we?" Reagan nodded and followed him out of the church.

She wasn't surprised that they walked right out the front doors and into the early morning sunlight. The village was barely beginning to stir and no one would be fully up and about for another good hour or so. It had been the plan, after all, to get her out with as little fuss as possible. The borrowed cloak and new clothes made that easier.

They walked slowly to the side of the building where the wagon was located. Father William stumbled a bit while carrying a box filled with jugs of homemade communion wine: a misstep which was unusual for the normally light-footed priest.

Reagan's eyes narrowed as she watched him lumber along, thinking that his robes looked a bit heavier than usual. Reagan made to help him but thought better of it as he loaded the box into the wagon with the rest of the items.

Bessie the ill-tempered donkey was harnessed to the wagon; she turned her head lazily toward Reagan and regarded her dolefully, a look of mocking interest in her large eyes. They'd never been fond of each other; it helped that the animal recognized their mutual disdain, and Reagan knew that if the donkey could speak she'd probably give her an earful now.

Reagan grinned despite herself, amused at the thought. Father William motioned for her to climb into the back, and, giving the priest one last futile look, she reluctantly lifted up the burlap cover and hoisted herself into the wagon. She managed to fold her body around jars of homemade wine and piles of dried herbs, crouching down as low as she could get, and backing herself into the far corner. Father William pulled down the burlap as tight as he could over the edges of the wagon, blotting out any weak sunlight that tried to creep in.

Reagan once again found herself in darkness, the sound of her own heavy breathing surrounding her. A few moments later the wagon jerked forward and she bumped her shoulder hard against the backboard.

She swallowed around the lump of fear in her throat and pulled her cloak down around her head in the hope that its voluminous dark folds could hide her further. The fear of being discovered pressed on her like a large stone, and Reagan fought at the panic that that simmered so close to the surface.

Trying to gather her wits and concentrate on the uneven rocking of the wagon, she closed her eyes and counted silently in her head, giving herself a task that always managed to realign her thoughts. Minutes passed and the wagon continued at a steady pace, getting closer to the front gates of the village. She heard Father William call out to Bessie and the wagon slowed down to a creeping halt.

"Good morning to you, Father," a deep, friendly voice called out.

"God bless you gentlemen," he said, adding, "What a fine day the Lord has given us." She could almost see the expatriated hand gestures Father William was making to cover up his nerves. Father Daniel always said he liked to talk with his hands when he was nervous.

"Yes, Father, it is beautiful," another voice called out. Reagan heard the crunch of heavy footfalls coming closer to the wagon. "May we inquire as to why you're going to the Market so early his morning?" There was a long pause, where she guessed her protector was trying to make it seem like he was giving their question some serious thought.

"I have an extra stop to make this morning. You see another rectory is in need of some communion wine and they can't have their services without it." Reagan's eyes widened at the obvious lie. It was a testament as to how much her priests loved her that even they would commit a sin to protect her.

"That's just fine of you, Father," the one with the deep voice answered. "But before you go, would you mind if we had a look in your wagon?" A wave of icy cold fear ran through her at the request. If they lifted the burlap cover they'd have no trouble finding her among the items in the closely packed wagon and all of their well-thought out plans would be for naught. She held her breath as Father William answered their question calmly.

"Why, no, gentlemen, by all means have a look," he said, in an overly cordial voice. Once again the footsteps approached and she recognized Father William saying under his breath, "God forgive me." She then heard a rather perplexing, yet hollow, sound, as if something solid hit something soft followed by what sounded like a heavy body hitting the ground. Before she had time to guess what exactly was happening, the man with the deep voice yelled out,

"What in the -" He didn't have time to finish his exclamation when she heard another loud thump, this noise closer to her than the first. She knew then that it was the sound of a second body crumpling to the ground. The wagon shook and Bessie brayed, alarmed.

Suddenly, the burlap cover was raised and sunlight flooded the darkness. Father William removed a rather large iron rod from his robes and tossed it into the wagon. He looked at her once and gave her a secret smile before returning to his seat and with a flick of his whip theystarted moving again at a rapid pace.

Reagan knew without a doubt that he had knocked the guards out with the brazier poker before they'd had a chance to discover her hiding place. She prayed that when he returned he would not be punished for hitting two of Rullus' guards, although she knew that the chances of that were slim.

Beyond being thankful to the loyal priest, she didn't have any more time to think about her rescue as she was desperately trying to remain low in the back of the wagon and not knock herself silly, a difficult task considering how many times as her head came into contact with the backboard.

She rode in the back for what seemed like hours, her back muscles straining and aching from the position she'd forced herself into. The sun was high in the sky from what she could tell through the holes in the burlap, and her cloak was becoming more of a hindrance than help, with the temperature rising steadily as the noon hour neared. Finally, the wagon stopped.

Father William dismounted and came around the back, lifting up the cover and motioning for her to climb out. Reagan crawled around various items, banging and bumbling into things and bruising herself in her haste to escape the confines of the wagon. Eventually her feet landed on a grassy field and she stretched, thankful for the chance to stand and ease her sore legs. Father William waited for her to finish and told her to ride up front with him.

"Do you think it's safe?" Reagan asked dubiously.

"We're four hours ride from Waldenham. No one besides Father Daniel knows where we are and those guards we met won't be talking." Reagan looked at him, surprised at his frank tone. "Did you…?" She couldn't finish the thought.

"No. Just gave them a nice bump on the head, they probably won't even remember who gave it to them. I emptied a few extra jugs of wine and placed them next to their bodies after I dragged them to the nearest haystack. I made sure they had a nice comfortable place to sleep it off." She smiled at him appreciatively.

"So you staged a scene?"

"Who do you think they'll believe, two drunken guards or a man of God?"

Reagan had to concede he had a point. No matter what Rullus believed, he wouldn't dare accuse a peaceful priest like Father William of attacking the guards. It would look too outlandish to the other villagers, which made the actual act even more surprising.

"Come ride up front with me. We're almost there and it would look strange for you to be climbing out of the back once we get inside the fort." She agreed and realized he was right, swinging herself onto the seat next to him.

"Fort?" Father William nodded and pulled on Bessie's reigns. The stubborn animal didn't want to move from her tasty pasture, and with one last mouthful of grass she reluctantly began her slow trot toward their destination once more.

"Hadrian's Wall, though, I think they're now calling it Camelot."

"The wall! You've taken me south?" She'd never considered going in that direction; too many nobles, and too many boon friends of Rullus' to bump into. She thought going south would be suicide.

"It's the perfect place for you to be, thick with people. What's one more face in the crowd?" Reagan didn't think it would be as easy as he was making it sound. "It does help that I'm on rather good terms with the King's stable master. He owes me a great favor and it's time I call him on it."

At her expression, he added, "Don't fret so, Reagan, the way you worry you'd think Rullus would be hiding around every cranny and corner of the kingdom." He patted her leg in reassurance as they crested the top of a hill.

There it was, the fort at Hadrian's Wall. The large stone structure was surrounded by rolling green hills and thick deep forests, Hadrian's fort sat sprawled on the land in between, like a slumbering giant, the interior of the fort bursting and teeming with life.

Reagan had never seen such a place before: guards at every corner, men, soldiers, and farmers alike walking together, talking; children running about, playing while women carried baskets on their hips and dodging men on horses - It was amazing! Here was a place people called home, yet she couldn't fathom how one got to know anyone else in such a large setting.

Their little wagon approached the front gate and they were granted access with very little fanfare. This apparently was not Father William's first visit, although why he should fail to mention he knew anyone in the King's court was anyones guess. Her beloved priest was turning out to be quite an anomaly.

Once inside they made their way through and to the left, toward a set of massive and beautifully kept stables. Father William climbed down from the wagon to greet a large man who was coming to meet them, cutting through a pair of soldiers on horseback leaving the stables.

"Father! How it's good to see you again!" He gave the priest a friendly pat on the back and a hardy shake of the hand.

"Jols! It's been too long, too long indeed." Reagan watched the old friends with a curious eye, before the attention of the two men fell on her.

"And who's this you've brought with you? You've never brought visitors before."

"I've never had to until now," Father William replied, motioning for Rowan to join them. She hesitated for a split second before she removed her hood and hopped down from the wagon heading for the two men. She stood at Father William's side and looked up at the large man in front of her. He had a bearded chin and deep-set eyes, and she could not help but smile back as he grinned down at her. There was an un-threatening air about him that put her at ease. This man would not hurt her, she realized.

"This is Reagan, he is a good lad recently orphaned, his family--God rest their souls--and home burned in an unfortunate house fire. He has no one to depend on except Father Daniel and I. As you probably are aware, sadly, we cannot take him in." Jols gave her a compassionate look and Reagan tried not to laugh at the dramatic tale Father William was spinning about her tragic past.

"I'm sorry for your loss, boy," he said gruffly. She tried to look appreciative of his condolences but knew she failed miserably. It was hard to fake sadness for a fictional family. "Is there anything I can do, Father?" Father William smiled brightly at the stable master and nudged her forward.

"He's a good lad, a good hard worker." He pushed her more toward Jols as he stepped away. Reagan looked over her shoulder at the priest; he was obviously going for the hard sale. No more words were needed though, as the big man clasped her on the shoulder, his beefy paws awkwardly patting her. Reagan winced but tried to keep her expression neutral.

"You're in luck, lad. I'm in need of another stable hand. The three I have can hardly keep up. You've got experience with horses?" His deep-set eyes regarded her kindly, a trace of pity in his voice. She cleared her throat and purposely lowered her voice.

"Yes," she lied. If this man wanted to give her work who was she to tell him that she'd never ridden a horse in her life? She certainly didn't want to tell him that the large animals always made her nervous. She'd have to get over that if she was going to be working with them, she thought practically.

"Good! That's settled then, you'll stay and work here. Don't worry about the boy, Father, he's in good hands. I'm always happy to help out, you know I am." He smiled at Father William and the priest clasped his hands together in approval, a smile plastered on his face.

"I confess I had hoped you might come through in this boy's hour of need. God bless you, Jols, you are a good man." The big man blushed to the roots of his hair and nodded a little uncomfortable at the compliment. Reagan grinned at the exchange and wondered how the two men had met.

"I have something for you, a thank-you gift!" Father William returned from the wagon caring the box of the homemade communion wine he'd loaded earlier that morning. Jols took the heavy parcel from the priest and surveyed his gift, another smile blossoming on his face and making his beard twitch. "There is one in there for Arthur. Make sure you tell him the vintage is wonderful, fit for a king!"

"Oh yes, Father, I'll make sure he receives it."

"Bless you." The priest took her arm gently and pulled her toward him, once again addressing the stable master, "I must be going now; Father Daniel will be wondering where I am."

"Of course, Father, of course, don't worry about the boy, I'll make sure he gets along just fine. Jols nodded. Father William gave him a look of sincere gratitude.

"I just wish to say goodbye, won't be but a moment." Reagan stumbled along as he pulled her toward the wagon. She stood quietly, reeling from everything that was happening around her. Father William gave her a once over, making sure she had everything: her dagger, a little coin for emergencies, and the hope that everything would be all right. Now it was Reagan's turn to be the one to give encouragement.

"You've taken me as far as we can go. I'm grown, this is my choice and as you've told me before we always have a choice." The priest nodded.

"Well," he sighed, "can't fault that pearl of wisdom." She laughed at his poor attempt to make light of the situation and felt wetness gather on her lashes. She'd made it this far without crying; she would not break down in front of him now. Father William watched her struggle with her emotions and knew then that it was time to take his leave. He climbed onto the wagon, and taking a hold of Bessie's reigns, he gave her one last look, a look so full of hope and admiration, she had to wonder if he knew something she didn't.

"Godspeed, Reagan," he said, his voice rough with emotion. She gave him a watery smile and smacked the donkey on the hind end. Bessie jerked to attention and the wagon started moving toward the gates. She felt Jols come up along side her, still holding the jugs of wine. She watched him wave at the priest out of the corner of her eye. Reagan let out a long sigh as she watched Father William, her friend and teacher, go slowly through the gates and round the corner. Even with Jols standing beside her and the hustle and bustle of the busy fort going on all around her, Reagan had to admit, at that last moment when the wagon drifted out of sight, she'd never felt so alone in her entire life.

**A/N: Please review when if you get a second. I'd love to hear what you think. Constructive criticism is always appreciated or just tell me what you're liking about the story so far! Next chapter, she meets some more familiar faces and lets just say that the initial "hello" between Reagan and a certain Knight doesn't go exactly well ;) 'til then, happy reading! I hope everyone has a great weekend! **


	4. Chapter 4

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story, I only own Reagan.**

**I have taken a bit of artistic license here, for the purposes of this story Lucan's age is going to be 15. I know he didn't appear to be more than 8 in the movie, but it suits the plot better if he is a little older. Gilly is 14 and Reagan's real age is 19, although everyone assumes that she's not more than 13 because of her size. There is a bit of swearing in this chapter. You have been warned!**

**This is another long chapter, long chapters appear to be the trend for this story.**

**Many thanks to Homeric and Leigh! You both rock! And thank you to everyone that has reviewed so far, it means a lot!**

**Now I'm done rambling.**

Chapter 4

In the days that followed Reagan's arrival at Hadrian's Wall, her entire world revolved around the stables. She didn't try to go exploring. She was often so busy that when her work was done she would follow the other boys to the kitchens for something to eat and then to the servant's quarters where she'd collapse on her bunk, exhausted, with the sharp smell of hay lingering in her nose.

She found herself desperately trying to acclimate to the busy and different lifestyle she was forced into on a hourly basis, and yet keep to herself as much as possible, so not to draw attention to herself. Three days into it though, Reagan realized she was doing a bad job of trying to stay in the shadows.

There was constant work--hard, sweaty, dirty work. It was not as if she'd never been dirty, but this was a different kind of grunge. Being around horses hour after hour and shoveling their dung and wet hay into buckets, you were bound to get some on you after a while. It also didn't help that on the first day she'd had absolutely no idea how to clean a horse's stall, let alone move the animals out so she could clean. Ganis and Gilly liked to watch her suffer.

Ganis was a tall lanky man with bad skin and even worse teeth. He always got a great laugh out of her various struggles with the horses; not once did he offer to help her. Gilly, a stout, robust teenager with a big mouth, liked to taunt her and threaten to blacken her other eye if she crossed him. Reagan toyed with the idea of giving him the same treatment she'd given Rullus when he bullied her. She knew that however much she'd enjoy kicking Gilly where it counted, the brief satisfaction would not outweigh the repercussions.

Her biggest help had been in the form of a young boy named Lucan. He'd been reluctant to help her at first, but after watching her struggle with a brown mare for more than a half hour he thought it an act of mercy to lend her a hand. He popped his head over the stall wall next to her and gave her a bright smile.

"You're the new boy, aren't you?" _As if it wasn't obvious_, Reagan thought, biting back a sarcastic retort and returning his bright smile, although she suspected her own was slightly dimmer.

She could remember seeing him around the stables but he always worked opposite her so she'd not gotten a chance to meet him. She gave the horse's lead rein one last frustrated tug and it stared back at her with defiant amber eyes, snorting loudly at her lack of patience. She wrapped the rein tighter around her fist and looked at the horse nose to nose.

"Come here, you stubborn creature!" She all but growled at the horse, still it did not move.

"You know, if you talk real nice to her she might cooperate." Lucan suggested Reagan glared at him,but addressed the horse once more.

"Come here!" She said in the same tone, and then added quietly, "Please." The mare took three steps forward. Reagan's jaw dropped in surprise at the sudden movement from the stationary animal.

"Hate to say I told you so," He said smugly. Shooting the blonde boy a look that would have made grown men cringe, she started talking sweetly to the brown mare, and the sweeter the tone the more the animal conceded to her.

Reagan got her moved into a much cleaner stall and picked up her shovel, pitchfork, and bucket. Once inside the dirty stall she fought the urge to gag at the smell. Putting her arm in front of her nose she tried to shovel a pile of horse dung into the bucket with one hand. A large section tipped off the shovel, landed on the edge of the bucket, and hit the floor with a wet splat. She heard a gleeful laugh from behind her. She turned around to see the boy grinning wildly.

"You act as though you've never smelled horse shit before." Rolling her eyes at him she snapped, "of course I've smelled it before, I've just never had to shovel so much of it." Biting her own tongue before she revealed any more of her lack of knowledge concerning stables, he chuckled to himself before imparting another pearl of wisdom.

"Well, you should try it with two hands, it makes the task much easier, and you're sure to get more in the bucket that way." Thinking he'd been right about everything else up to this point, she tried it his way and the entire pile went into the bucket on the first try.

The boy came alongside her and moved the bucket to the next pile of droppings. With his assistance she'd had all of the dung cleaned off the floor in no time. Then he showed her all of the wet spots and how to move the straw around the stall the correct way so that when the mare moved back in she could make herself a proper bed and not lay in her own filth.

Reagan was hesitant to remove the sodden blanket in the corner but he showed her a way to roll it up so that she didn't have to get her hands too dirty,-- something she wished she'd known three days ago--and then took her to where they kept the fresh horse blankets.

After they'd finished and moved the mare back into her stall she helped Lucan fill the feed dish that was hanging on the door and - changed her water. Lucan grinned at her as she watched the mare chomp on her oats and pieces of carrot. After they were both satisfied with the state of the brown mare. She followed Lucan to the next stall that needed to be taken care of.

"You're an orphan, aren't you?" He asked plainly.

Reagan looked at him, trying not to let the lie show on her face, but knew she failed miserably. Being a poor liar was a character flaw she needed to work on.

"It's all right. Jols has a soft spot for orphan boys-- he used to be one himself."

"How did you know I was an orphan?" She asked, wondering what else this strange boy knew.

"Like recognizes like, I guess." He sighed moving to the next stall where a majestic spotted grey mare gazed down at him. "You've got to excuse Jols, if the king hadn't needed to see him right away, I'm sure he'd be here helping you. Instead, you get me."

He shrugged as if that explained why the stable master thrust a bucket and pitchfork into her hands and then told her to clean out the first stall with the brown mare before taking off to parts unknown. Reagan regarded the boy with a haphazard kindness; he didn't have to help her, he had choosen to.

"So you're an orphan as well?" He nodded, and Reagan watched as he gently reached up and stroked the beautiful horse on the nose. The mare leaned into him and nudged his shoulder affectionately. Reagan was reluctant to admit that he had a way with the animals.

"I'm Lucan, by the way," he said, turning back to her, his large blue eyes regarding her kindly. He was about a head taller than she was but his wiry frame would probably fill out in no time. She guessed him to be a few years younger than she was and despite being rather irked by him at first, his friendly attitude had helped to improve her dark mood.

She smiled at him despite herself and received a strange almost puzzled look from him in return. She immediately stopped smiling and looked anywhere but at him. Clearing her throat she deepened her voice purposely. The fear of being revealed as a female so early in the game made her regret dropping her guard around him.

"I'm Reagan." He nodded and she dared to look back at him, any strange ideas he might have had about her no longer showed on his expressive face.

"You're the boy that came in with the priest a few days ago, aren't you?"

She nodded, and came up alongside him.

"Go on and pet her if you'd like, she won't hurt you." Reagan timidly reached up and stroked the soft fur of the horse's muscular neck.

"She's my favorite. Her name is Skye. She belongs to Tristan."

"Tristan?" Reagan asked, the name sounded familiar, but only because she'd heard it spoken around the kingdom in a tone akin to fear and hero worship.

"He's one of the king's Knights. Sir Tristan." At her blank look he continued.

"Don't tell me you've never heard of the Sarmatian Knights?" When she shook her head he gave her a look of incredulity.

"Where I come from there are no Knights, only the Lords that own the land, the soldiers who obey them, and the serfs who work their fingers to the bone to pay their steep rent," she replied by way of explanation, not quite succeeding in keeping the bitterness out of her voice. She'd heard of the king's Knights but she had no idea how revered the warriors were until she'd arrived in Camelot.

"The Knights of the roundtable: Gawain, Galahad, Tristan, Bors, Dagonet, Lancelot…" He trailed off when she didn't respond to any of the names he mentioned.

"No," she shrugged. Lucan smirked at her and led the beautiful horse out of her stall quite easily. No coaxing required.

"Well then, you're in for a treat, every boy our age knows of them, and if you're lucky you might be chosen to become one of their squires."

"Squires?" she asked, trying not to seem as interested as she was.

"Yes. Boys they choose to train. You learn from them and then eventually become a knight yourself. I'm one of the lucky ones. I'm Dagonet's squire." Reagan looked at him, confused.

"If you're a squire, why are you working in the stables and not serving your Lord?" Lucan laughed at her question and Reagan couldn't understand what was so damn funny. It was an honest question. If he needed to train to become a knight then why would he be wasting a good part of his day working in the stables?

"It's not all swordplay and battle training. There are things we need to learn for ourselves and good hard work, albeit in a stable, is a good way to keep a curious lad out of trouble, or so Dagonet tells me." He reached around for his rake and began tossing the straw about the stall.

She reached for her own pitchfork and propped it up against the next stall. She'd have to start cleaning again, but she was intensely curious. This squire stable boy had told her more things in a few short hours than she'd managed to gather in three days at the fort by herself.

"I'm not the only squire working in the stables." He started rolling up the horse's soiled blanket and looked at her standing on the threshold of the stall. "Gilly's one as well. Although it does help that Bors is his father."

"Gilly is a squire too?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant and doing a bad job of it. Even the mere mention of the rude boy made her want to kick something. "He's a bit of a bully, Gilly is" she said, pushing some hay around with the toe of her boot.

"Don't mind him," Lucan added, getting to his feet. "He's all bark and no bite. A lot like his father, except Bors has a lot more bite." Thinking of the stocky, bull-faced boy and the spiteful way he almost pushed her into a fresh pile of horse droppings on her first day made her think otherwise.

"If I were you, Reagan, I'd make sure I work hard and earn my keep. Practice your talents with a sword and maybe one of the knights will notice you."

Practice her talents? What talents? She couldn't even lift a sword, let alone wield one.

She nodded, pretending to take his advice, and moved to the next stall she was supposed to clean which housed a gorgeous black stallion. Lucan was finishing the grey mare's stall and moving her back in, while Reagan was wondering how in the world she was going to move the massive black horse all by herself.

She was loathe to ask for Lucan's assistance; if she could get the stubborn brown mare to move then she could get this one to move as well. Reagan once again she slid her rope around the horse's thick neck, mindful not to let it get too tight. The great horse shook his head and snorted loudly at her as if in warning. There was something wild in the animal's eyes that Reagan didn't like, something that told her this was a horse to be reckoned with.

"Be careful with him, he's a right spirited horse. He's also got a mean streak in him that's something fierce. Quite a bit like his master." She watched as he finished his last stall and made for the front of the stables.

"I'll see you in the kitchens! I'm off to wash for supper," he shouted over his shoulder. She replied with a noncommittal grunt, more preoccupied with the horse than she was with thoughts of the evening meal, even though her stomach rumbled at the reminder.

Reagan knew she was the last to finish in the stables; this was nothing new to her. It had been that way since her first day. She couldn't leave until her work was done, something she'd made up her mind to accept from the start. She might always be the last to supper but she was going to learn to work in these stables if she had to go hungry for a week or more.

If there was one draw back to being a boy, she had to admit it was strength. Everyone expected you to have it in abundance. Reagan knew her legs were strong, but her arms ached at the end of the day and it was all she could do not to let on that she didn't have the upper body strength that the rest of the boys did. She opened the stall door while holding onto the rope as tightly as she could. Reagan firmly planted her feet on the ground and addressed the horse in a friendly tone.

"This could be a win-win situation. You get a clean stall and some fresh water to drink and I get to finally have one of those tasty biscuits Ganis and Gilly keep eating –in front of me. Now, let's be friends and let me clean your stall?" The horse studied her with dark eyes, and she wondered if it was sizing her up for his next meal. She gave the rope a tug and the horse shook his big head at her, his dark mane glowing in the torchlight.

Suddenly she found herself being dragged further into the stall as the horse backed up. Obviously this horse wasn't going down without a fight. The stallion snorted at her as she tried to get him to move out of the stall once more, the rope wrapped around her fits pulling and burning at her already raw skin. She gritted her teeth against the pain as the horse refused to cooperate.

She had an inclination that this horse, with its muscular body and beautiful dark coat, was without a doubt a beast from hell. She had to admit that he made the stubborn brown mare look like a kitten in comparison. Getting tired of trying to fight with the stallion, she gave the reins one last tug.

"Please help me." She said, her voice sounding pitiful to her own ears. Reagan realized that she'd stooped to begging a horse for a favor and her life had sunk to an even deeper low. The horse regarded her seriously before lowering it's big nose and pushing at her hard.

Startled by the sudden move, she landed on the hard stable floor, trying to catch herself with her hands and managing to get one in a fresh pile of droppings. She felt the stuff ooze between her fingers, warm and foul smelling, and didn't know if she should laugh or cry as the beast stared down at her, seemingly amused at her precarious situation.

"To hell with you, you great beast!" she cried, and the horse danced away from her, becoming skittish at her angry tone. She barely dodged having one of her feet trampled upon when a tall shadow fell over both horse and girl. She looked up, dreading that Gains or Gilly had come to mock her again, and her eyes fell on someone altogether unknown.

He moved with the agile grace of a warrior, each step made with purpose, and his presence seemed to swallow up the available space in the large horse stall, making her feel insignificant. He made quick work of getting the horse to calm down. Grabbing at the reins with a sure and firm grasp, commanding the animal's full attention.

If the great black horse was a beast from hell, then surely the black haired man before her was Satan himself, Reagan thought. He had a strange dark beauty and deadly air about him, which did nothing to lessen her intimidation.

The horse startled once again, only to be calmed by the man's deep soothing voice. The rich vibrations ran through her as well, but instead of soothing her, as it did the horse, it made her shiver. After the horse was settled he continued to stroke its muzzle and neck in a rhythmic pattern, murmuring to it softly in a language she didn't recognize.

So lost in the interaction between animal and master, she didn't notice him reach down and offer his hand to help her up off the ground. He cleared his throat and gave her a pointed look, a scowl creasing the skin between his dark brows.

Reagan mentally shook herself as she slipped her small clean hand into his much larger one. He pulled her up with none of the gracefulness of a gentleman. Instead she was yanked to her feet and she grabbed the stable door for purchase on wobbly legs. Once she was righted he addressed her with a dark accusing glare.

"He can smell your fear." The deep hypnotic voice she'd lost herself in minutes ago now held a chillingly quiet malice and Reagan resisted the urge to shrink up against the stable wall.

"If you want to move him, might I suggest using food as bait instead of pulling hard on his reins? The more you force him the more he will resist." She hadn't even thought of using food as a way to lead the animal out of the stall. She just wanted to finish cleaning the stable so she could eat supper and finally rest. He grabbed a carrot from the feed bin and showed her exactly how to get the difficult animal out of his stall with little or no fuss.

She watched stunned as the stallion followed quite willingly out of the dirty stall and into the clean one she'd been trying so hard to get him to do in the first place. The dark stranger closed the stall door and abruptly turned around to face her. She inwardly flinched at being on the receiving end of his full and undivided attention. Reagan didn't know what to expect next, but she knew for sure that this man would not be as helpful or as kind to her as Lucan had been.

He approached her slowly, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Reagan felt rooted to the spot, not sure whether it was from fear or fascination, only knowing that she felt an oppressive heat coming from his incredibly dark eyes and it was startling. He radiated power and intelligence, and judging by his well kept appearance and clothing she suspected that this man was no ordinary soldier of the fort.

"You must be the new boy Jols was telling us about?"

She nodded and swallowed convulsively. Feeling as though her tongue was attached to the roof of her mouth. "Well, in that case, the next time I find you bullying my horse, you'll get bruises that make the ones marring your face look like scratches. Do I make myself clear?" Reagan could only blink at him in disbelief. Did he just threaten to beat her for doing her job? How was it her fault that his horse was difficult to work with?

"Seeing as you're new and obviously Malachi doesn't know you, this time I'll let the incident go." He replied as though he was the most magnanimous man alive. Reagan's fascination quickly turned into annoyance, and the patronizing grin on his face made her palm itch to slap him. Instead she tried to hold her tongue, however difficult it was for her to do so. She then bowed mockingly and blinked up at him in false sincerity.

Satisfied with the exchange, he looked at the dirty stall and then back at her.

"Don't let me keep you from your work,. Supper is almost done and I'm sure you must be hungry." He motioned at her rake and bucket before he turned away, walking toward the front doors of the stable. Watching his retreating back, Reagan couldn't contain her ire any longer. As if she could be dismissed so easily after that scathing put down! She took a deep breath, trying and failing to control her temper.

"Your beast of a horse bullied me more than I bullied him." At that the man turned back around and regarded her with one raised eyebrow, before she could stop herself she added, "He obviously takes after his master in personality as well as looks!"

The man blinked at her, his eyes twinkling, either shocked by her boldness or amazed that she'd managed a semi coherent reply. Then to her surprise, he laughed; the rich sound was like velvet to her ears and a genuine smile made his angular features soften, giving him an almost boyish look. He gave her a once over, taking in her dirty tunic, shit-smeared boots, and hair that hadn't been washed in days.

"I can see that you've earned that black eye and split lip. With your sharp tongue and quick temper, you're going to be on the receiving end of someone's fist more often than you'd like, boy." If only he knew the whole story, she thought, then he'd think twice before reminding her of just how she "earned" her bruises.

"Better to be at the receiving end of someone's fist than crushed under the boot heel of a noble." He looked slightly taken aback at her fierce tone. Reagan began to wonder if perhaps she'd overstepped the line. The charged silence in the stables was so thick that only the heavy sound of the horses' hooves rustling on the stable floor broke the tension.

"I was once like you," he said, quietly addressing her frankly and with none of the arrogance he'd displayed earlier. "Young and angry, easily riled. I enjoyed a good brawl or two in my day, but you have to know not everyone is out to wrap you in chains. Until you learn some respect, I suggest you keep to yourself, do your work _properly,_ and you'll soon find that trying to fight something that won't hit back is a pointless battle."

Reagan gave him a confused look wondering exactly what that meant. "And one more thing: if you ever insult myself or my horse again you will live to regret it." His eyes flashed dangerously and the threat was not lost on her.

He acted as if he owned the world and could push anyone around that got in his way. Reagan knew without a doubt that this posturing, menacing man was a noble, a filthy, rotten noble, just like Rullus. She would not stand to be bullied by another pompous Lord who thought her only worthy task was to bend down and kiss his boots.

Her eyes narrowed and her anger flared again as she watched his retreating back once more. Thinking it remote that he would see, she raised her arm at him in a rude gesture she'd seen some of the boys back home use toward each other. Having a vague idea of what it meant, she thought it fitting that it be directed at him. It was just her luck that Jols chose that moment to return to the stables.

"Reagan!" He shouted, shocked. Eyes wide, she quickly lowered her arm, putting her hands behind her back, hoping against hope that Jols' exclamation hadn't given her away. It was unfortunate that Reagan's luck had completely run out.

"I saw that!" The man said not turning around. Jols gave him a panicked look and the man calmly nodded in greeting. "Jols." The stable master gave him a half-hearted nod, looking from the man and then back to where she was standing looking like a scared rabbit.

"Lancelot." She heard Jols reply. At the mention of his name a wave of dread washed over Reagan. The pompous, posturing noble was one of the knights Lucan had been telling her about. One of the _head_ knights, if she remembered correctly, who was very close to the king.

It was then that Reagan realized she'd just done something very rude and worthy of great punishment to the King's first knight. She watched in dread as both men directed their attention toward her.

Without realizing what she was doing Reagan took a few steps back. If she had been paying attention to where she was going and what she was doing, she would have realized that her left foot had knocked over her droppings bucket.

As it was she was entirely focused on Lancelot and Jols. As if her life couldn't possibly get any worse, her right foot landed just right in the spilled droppings and she slipped, landing hard on her bottom, square in the middle of the spilled droppings. As Reagan stared up from her dung-covered spot on the floor of the stables, the two men who had every right to be angry with her began to laugh uproariously. It was then that she realized, as her face turned a very bright shade of red, that sitting in a pile of horse dung while the stable master and the first knight laughed at you was punishment enough for any crime.

**A/N: Huge thanks go to Homeric for all of the extra help she offered on this chapter and for her knowledge of horses. I know nothing about horses that I've not read and she was very patient and kind in her explanations. Thankfully this will be the last chapter I will have to write which takes place in only the stables :) Reagan's encounter was not the most glamorous way to meet Lancelot, but by all accounts one of the most embarrassing! Apologies to all of you that read all of the hurried mistakes of Chapter 3. I'd promise you won't have to wait long for Chapter 5, but alas I am going on vacation to a little place called Disney World. It's my anniversary you know, gotta celebrate! I can say that if you're still interested you won't have to wait long for the next update. Till then happy reading! I'm off to ride the Haunted Mansion…HAPPY HALLOWEEN!**


	5. Chapter 5

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story, I only own Reagan. **

**Once again huge thanks go to Homeric and Leigh, two fabulous people who just happen to be awesome betas. **

**I apologize for the long wait in between chapters, as a reader I know how frustrating that can be, as an author I realize how fast that time can slip past you. This chapter was a bear to write, but it had to happen and Reagan was fighting me tooth and nail while I was in the midst of it, then Tristan stepped in and put a stop to that pretty quick let me tell you. I hope this chapter is worth the wait. **

**Thank you to all of my kind reviewers, you are one of the main reasons I enjoy writing this story so much! **

Chapter 5

After another humiliating hour spent finishing her tasks in the stables, Reagan had managed to move Malachi, Lancelot's black stallion, back into his clean stall. Her stomach was rumbling with hunger, but she knew that she'd once again missed supper.

Besides that fact, she knew the scullery maids would never let her set foot in the kitchens looking and smelling the way she did. It was bad enough that she hadn't washed in three days, but now she had managed to plant herself in a pile of horse dung while suffering probably one of the most embarrassing moments in her life.

It didn't matter that she had made a fool of herself in front of Lancelot; Reagan knew it was insulting him that she regretted.

She shuffled, defeated, towards the servant's quarters, knowing that Lucan would be there and hoping he could spare her an extra change of clothing while she bathed and then washed her own soiled garments.

She wasn't about to take her foul breeches and tunic to the laundry maids--she'd worked as a laundress before and she wasn't about to be that mean.

The trick now became where she could have bath in private. She did not want to risk using the public bathhouses in the fort.

There were too many people and she knew that it would be more than a little shock to some of the patrons watching a boy disrobe and become a girl with just the removal of her breeches.

Not to mention likely to raise questions that she had no intention of answering. No, she decided, using the public bathhouses was out of the question while she remained in Camelot.

Reagan reluctantly made her way into the servant's quarters. Word apparently traveled fast as Ganis and Luacn met her at the door.

"Did you really insult Lancelot?" Ganis asked disbelievingly. She nodded folding her arms across her chest, daring him to question her further. He shook his head and laughed, giving her an eyeful of crooked teeth.

"You have some stones, boy, I'll give you that!" Reagan reluctantly smiled at his backhanded compliment.

"So it is true! And it wasn't just a joke, you actually fell into some deep shit!" Lucan snorted with laughter, slapping his hands together in utter glee, as Reagan glared at him.

"I know, so would you please lend me some clothing? I obviously need to change these!" Lucan continued to giggle to himself as he rummaged trough his trunk looking for clothes that might fit her.

He turned around and thrust a blue tunic and worn brown breeches into her arms. "I want them returned to me, shit free, understand?" She narrowed her eyes at him, as he and Ganis began laughing anew.

Reagan had the feeling that she'd probably never live down her first meeting with Lancelot. She walked to the front gates alone, it was getting late and the torch-lit paths made it difficult for her to see where she was going.

Many of the villagers gave her a wide berth--apparently no one wanted to be near the stinky young boy wandering the streets. Reagan sighed and hugged the clean clothes to her chest, thinking that she really couldn't blame them one bit.

Once she'd made it safely outside the wall, she walked into the deep black forest east of the fort. Reagan held out hope that in going in this direction she'd eventually run into a quiet stream where she could bathe alone and finally wash her clothing.

Her fingers tightened around the small treasure in the palm of her hand as she walked briskly through the forest. Lucan had given her one of his last chunks of lye soap and she had plans to use all of it.

Reagan walked for about a half an hour, the moonlight filtering in through the canopy of trees above her, illuminating the bracken and fallen tree branches in her path. She listened intently for the sound of rushing water and was rewarded as she approached a tiny pond.

The dark surface of water glowed in the moonlight and beckoned to her.

She made quick work of removing her soiled clothing. She tucked her dagger and boots close to a nearby tree and sighed in relief as she unbound her breasts for the first time in days.

The water was cold but the air was warm and she knew that summer was fast approaching. She loved this time of year, when the last frigid glimpse of spring vanished and the warm, promising scents of summer hung heavy in the air.

Reagan stepped tentatively into the murky water and discovered that the pond wasn't very deep but it served her purposes well enough. She washed quickly and efficiently, feeling many days' worth of sweat and grime wipe off her skin in layers.

When she was finished, she quickly dried herself off with her binding cloth and once again wrapped it tightly around her breasts, trying to make herself as flat chested as possible.

She donned the too-big breeches Lucan had loaned her, making a mental note to ask Jols for a bit of rope tomorrow to help tie them to her waist. Then she pulled the soft clean blue tunic over her head, sighing in exhaustion and reveling in the feel of clean clothes against her skin: it was a luxury she had not had in a long time.

She picked up her red tunic and wondered when it had been washed last. Looking at the numerous stains, both old and new, Reagan suspected all of the clothes Father Daniel had given her had not been properly washed in ages.

At the thought of the crotchety old priest, a wave of homesickness washed over her. She could no longer deny that she missed her two priests; she missed the rectory and her lessons.

But what she missed the most was working in her garden, tending to the roses and ferns around her cottage and making sure her stock of herbs was well underway for the season. A tight knot caught in her throat and she sat down heavily on the bank of the pond, feeling thick tears burning at the edge of her eyelids.

Quickly swiping at her eyes, she sighed, realizing she was feeling sorry for herself. She knew she was tired, she was more than a little hungry, and she really hated horses. But what she hated most of all was this new life, her flimsy disguise, always pretending to be something or someone she wasn't.

The most wearing of all was that she was constantly afraid of being found out, of being unmasked and then sent back to Waldenham, straight into Rullus' clutches. What should have worried her was how she was going to be able to claim her old life again after being publicly declared a Witch.

If the news ever left the whitewashed walls of Waldenham, she would be hunted. It was one thing to be running from a ruthless man; it was another to be a hunted for something she was innocent of.

Pushing away all thoughts of being cornered by a bounty hunter and tied to a very large burning stake, Reagan cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. No, she'd be dead before she allowed that to happen, she thought fiercely.

No matter how much she missed her garden and her priests, she'd come this far without giving into her treacherous emotions, she would not do it now. Reagan vowed to stay strong and hold true to the hope that she would one day go back to Waldenham and her cottage.

Giving her nose one last swipe with the back of her hand she reached for her tunic. Unfolding the soiled garment, she realized she had her work cut out for her. Grabbing the remains of the soap she'd used to wash with, she started scrubbing at her tunic with an industriousness borne out of frustration.

Before she knew it, both the red tunic and the tan breeches were wiped as clean as they could get. She draped them over a large rock to drip dry and reached for her boots. With handfuls of sand she scrubbed them clean and slipped them on, her toes wriggling in the big boots before she tied them tightly, securing them the best she could.

She gathered her wet clothes and pushed hair out of her eyes. Her sight having long ago become accustomed to the moonlit forest, Reagan began to steadily make her way back toward the fort following the same footpath that had led her to the tiny pond.

She was busy thinking about how she was going to dry her clothes when she missed a raised tree root sticking up out of the ground before her. She lost her balance before she had a chance to catch herself, her clothes tumbling out of her hands, and she hit her hipbone against something hard on the forest floor.

Groaning in pain, she clumsily got to her feet, searching for her tunic and breeches amongst the dried leaves and bracken. Just as she had spotted her tunic and bent down to grab for it, another hand reached out of the darkness and snatched up the garment with such speed she could only blink in shock.

Then immerging from the shadows, a tall figure slid from behind the great tree. It was a man judging by his size and the breadth of his shoulders silhouetted in the moonlight, but the thing that really caught her attention and held it was the dangerous and sharp-looking sword pointed at her belly.

Its long curved blade winked at her in the moonlight and she could do nothing but stare at it in alarm. Her eyes followed the blade to the strong hand that held it steady, up the arm, to the shoulder and then into a face so obscured by a tangled fall of hair that she couldn't make out the features in any way, shape, or form.

What she could see were a pair of curious-colored eyes, regarding her with a kind of keen interest that could only be classified as predatory. Feeling very much the prey, at that exact moment, Reagan was completely unaware that she was being held at sword point by another one of the knights.

It also didn't help the situation that he never bothered to introduce himself before silently threatening her.

His voice was rough when he finally spoke and it startled her so much that she almost fell right onto the blade before her.

"Who are you?" It was a simple question and it was one she couldn't fathom how to answer while her breath was coming out in short panicked puffs of air. She struggled with the words her tongue feeling twice it's normal size.

"R-R-Reagan," she stammered in reply.

"What are you doing outside the fort this late at night, Reagan?" Her name rolled of his tongue in an almost lyrical way and it caught her off guard for a split second.

"Walking," she lied, daring to take her eyes off the sword and look the man in the eyes. His stance never once wavered, only the tone of his voice.

"Really?" He asked as though he didn't believe her. "Well, the next time you decide to wash your clothing in the pond I suggest you do it in the light of day--at the fort and not in a forest that is very lightly guarded at night." He slowly removed his sword from her belly, sheathing it in one fluid motion--the kind that was borne out of years of practice.

Then, before she could react to what he just implied, he threw her tunic at her. She barely had enough time to catch it before it hit her in the face with a wet slap.

"Your breeches are behind you. Grab them and then follow me." Reagan doubted she should disobey this man, not knowing why she trusted him, she did as she was told and quickly grabbed her breeches, then jogged to catch up to him.

For his size, he was very quick and nimble on his feet. The strange man said nothing to her as they made their way toward the edge of the forest. She had a hard time keeping up with him, as she tripped and stumbled over debris along the tangled forest floor.

After she tripped again for what seemed like the hundredth time, he stopped abruptly and she slammed into his back with a force that almost knocked her off her feet. Reagan heard him take a great sigh as he turned his head to look at her.

"You make enough noise to wake the dead," he said, annoyance clear in his tone.

"Well, I'm sorry I'm not as fleet footed as you! Do you have to walk so fast?" She asked, exasperated.

The man made a funny rasping sound and she wasn't sure if he were laughing or choking. He grabbed her arm and began walking again at a much slower pace. She had a much easier time keeping up with him after that.

He let go of her once they reached the front gates of the fort. The area was well it with blazing torches and she finally got a good look at the man before her. If Lancelot was the epitome of well-kept appearances then this man was his exact opposite. Her initial reaction in the forest was not unfounded.

To say that he looked dangerous was an understatement. His long dark hair was a tangled mess and his clothes looked worn and faded, as though he hadn't had a new tunic in ages and had no desire to acquire one.

The dangerous blade was strapped to his hip and he rested one hand casually on the hilt, an action that belied the tension coiled tightly in his forearm. Reagan knew that this was probably one man she did not want to ever cross if she could help it.

Finally, as though feeling her intently curious gaze, he turned to look at her and she took one big step back. Sharp amber-colored eyes stared back at her, narrowing as she slowly and unconsciously backed away from him.

His eyes never left her, as the large heavy front gates were slowly pulled open by the night guards. Reagan had to force her eyes from his as she scurried inside.

Once safely shut inside the fort he made a beeline for the stables and she once again found herself jogging to keep up with him. Clutching her wet clothes close to her, Jols met her at the first set of stalls. Happy to see she had retuned from her walk unharmed, he nodded with respect to the man beside her.

"Evening, Tristan," Jols said in greeting and Tristan gave him a barely perceptible nod."I see you've met Reagan, my new stable boy." At the word 'boy' something in the knight's sharp eyes shifted and he looked at her intently.

The moment was lost seconds later; whatever it may have been, it was gone before Reagan could pin it down.

Jols' cheerful smile faltered and Tristan touched his fingers to his forehead in a silent dismissal. He made his way quickly out of the stables and disappeared into the night.

After that, she was left trying to wrap the idea around her brain of being held at sword point by another mysterious knight. Were all of the Sarmatians large, threatening men? She didn't have time to ponder the frightening concept because Jols' voice jarred her out of her thoughts.

"Well," the stable master sighed. "You best be getting off to bed. You've got another busy day in front of you." She nodded and promised she'd be ready and on time for tomorrows tasks.

"I just have to take my clothes to the laundry rooms to dry." Reagan was surprised when Jols just gave her a nod of permission and waved her away. She gave her halfhearted thanks and all but ran to the cleaning rooms.

All of the maids were abed and she was blessedly alone for once. She took her time trying to find the right place to lay her clothing so that it wouldn't be in the way of the maids when they came in the following morning to do their tasks.

Just as she'd finished putting out her breeches she heard a scuffling sound behind her. Turning abruptly, she caught her hands on the edge of one of the tables, stopping before she toppled over completely.

"Gilly?" she asked, as the boy stood in the threshold of the doorway. He never said anything in reply, just gave her a menacing glare and was gone before she knew what to think of the strange encounter.

Reagan had had her fill of bumping into various members of the fort and being startled by them. Folding her arm across her chest she quickly made her way to the servants quarters.

Tugging off her boots, she wearily lay down on the bed and was asleep before she could figure out why the image of dark, heavy-lidded eyes and curly hair were the last things she thought of.

* * *

The next morning she and Lucan made it to breakfast together on time for once. She was very happy to have someone to eat a meal with, and Lucan talked her ear off about the knights and the intense training Dagonet was putting him through. It was his day off in the stables and Reagan didn't relish the thought of handling the horses by herself while Ganis and Gilly alternately taunted and mocked her. 

She waved goodbye to Lucan as he made his way toward the training grounds, promising to meet him for supper if she managed to finish in the stables at decent hour. She quickly made her way though the busy streets of the fort toward the laundry rooms -- she wanted to fetch her clothes before the laundresses started their day.

Pushing the heavy oak door open, she found the room was empty, much like it had been the night before. She walked over to the table where she had put her clothes and was more than a little surprised at what she saw.

Her newly cleaned clothes were sliced and torn to shreds, as if someone had deliberately taken a dagger to them. The seams were torn on her tunic and great holes cut in the sleeves, her breeches in tatters and the strings that held them together were now hanging like limp worms from the fabric.

She fisted her fingers into the ruined garments, her anger rising to the surface with such speed she didn't fully react to it until she was outside. Clutching the clothes in her white knuckled fists she headed for the stables one person in the forefront of her mind. Gilly.

Luckily she didn't have to go as far as the stables to find the boy. He was ambling along at a slow pace through the courtyard of the fort, apparently without a care in the world. Reagan shouted his name, and when he didn't turn around, she shouted it again for good measure and was rewarded as he finally stopped moving.

Gathering the last vestiges of her pride she tapped him on the shoulder. He glared down at her with intense dislike, using both his height and weight to his advantage. He glanced down at the clothes she carried in her hands and the satisfied smirk he wore was answer enough for her.

Reagan held out the ripped tunic and torn breeches, practically shaking with anger she shoved them under Gilly's not so surprised nose.

"Do you want to tell me why you decided to ruin my clothing?" Gilly snorted in distain at her shrugging his shoulders.

"I didn't touch your bleedin' clothes," he sneered at her, pushing hard at her shoulder and knocking Reagan off balance for a moment.

"You were the only one in the laundry rooms last night and you saw me hang them to dry. You know damn well you did this!" Her temper once again getting the best of her, Reagan's voice rose, causing some of the other villagers to stop what they were doing and look at the scene between the two boys with interest.

"I just told you, you scrawny little good for nothing. I didn't touch your clothes!" Gilly shouted, pushing his nose into hers and breathing sour breath into her face. Reagan felt a sudden grip on her upper arm pull her away from a very red-faced Gilly. She stumbled a bit and looked up at Lucan.

"You're making a scene, Reagan, and he's not worth it," Lucan mumbled to her under his breath. Gilly's attention suddenly swiveled to Lucan,

"Stay out of this, Lucan," he warned, puffing out his chest in an attempt to make himself more threatening. "It has nothing to do with you and everything to do with him!" As if to make his point, Gilly grabbed Reagan by the collar of her tunic, Lucan lost his grip on her arm, and she was lifted off the ground with surprising ease.

"If you ever accuse me of something again I swear to the gods that I will wipe the floor with you!" He yelled, shaking her hard before deliberately dropping her. Reagan managed to catch herself, but she landed on the ground, once again on her bruised bottom.

She glared up at the boy, his round face red and splotchy with anger. With hatred burning bright in her eyes, she fought the urge to tackle him. She forced herself up only to find Gilly was at the ready and before she had a chance to defend herself he grabbed her collar again and sent her flying through the air.

Reagan wasn't as lucky this time around; she landed belly first, her face scraping along the rough cobbled stones of the main road. Shaken, she lay there for a moment, pain slicing through her.

She groaned as she raised herself up on trembling arms, feeling her lip split open again and something thick and warm trickle from her nose into her mouth. Before she had the chance to get to her feet once more a voice rang through the shocked murmurs of the crowd that had gathered to watch the confrontation.

"What is the meaning of this?" Reagan turned to watch Lancelot and another man with dark wavy hair push their way through the throng of villagers toward them. Lucan's wits seemed to return to him suddenly, and he made his way quickly toward Reagan's side, pulling her up off the ground.

The man Reagan didn't recognize surveyed the situation before him with quiet green eyes, taking in all of the details: the torn clothing, Gilly's guilty and very-red face, and the fresh blood dripping from Reagan's mouth and nose. Aware of her wounds, she held her hand over her face, trying desperately to stop the flow of blood before it ruined Lucan's blue tunic.

The man with the green eyes gave a deep sigh, and, with the brisk efficiency of someone used to being in command, told the other villagers that the fight was over and to return to their daily tasks. The villagers did so with reluctant respect, regretful that the brawl was cut short. He then turned in a surprising move and addressed Lucan.

"Please explain Lucan. I trust you are able to do that with some amount of diplomacy." Lucan cleared his throat and blushed. He looked at Reagan then away again.

"Well, my Lord, things got a little out of hand. Reagan's clothes suddenly turned up torn to shreds this morning, and Gilly was the only one to see him hang the garments to dry in the laundry rooms last night. Reagan suspected with the not-so-gracious welcome he's been receiving from Gilly since his arrival that he was the one responsible for the crime."

The man nodded and looked at Gilly. "Did you destroy the boy's clothing, Gilly?" Gilly looked away and gave an incoherent reply. The tall man nodded and looked at Lancelot.

"Take Gilly to Bors. Tell his father that he has gotten into another brawl and that he ruined this boy's clothing. Tell him that his son's wages will be docked for a full month and the coin put toward new clothing for Reagan."

Gilly gave an angry grunt as Lancelot nodded and began pulling the unwilling boy away from the scene. "And, Lancelot?" The knight stopped, yanking Gilly toward him as the boy began to bolt, taking Lancelot's momentary distraction for granted.

"Make sure to tell Bors that what ever punishment he deems fit for the crime be done twice, once for each article of clothing ruined." Lancelot tipped his chin in silent agreement before dragging a very uneager Gilly away.

The man turned to Lucan and Reagan and motioned for them both to follow. Reagan wondered where they were going. Nothing was said as she quietly trailed behind the two men.

Soon enough, though, she found herself before a set of rooms easily accessible from the front of the fort. Once inside, Reagan was astounded to see they'd taken her to the healing rooms.

Beds lined one wall, and rows and rows of shelves filled with scrolls and various earthenware bowls and jars occupied the other. Two washbasins sat side-by-side and a roaring fire blazed in the hearth on the farthest wall, an iron pot sat above it, bubbling a spewing a foul-looking greenish concoction.

A very large man suddenly emerged from the connecting room, wiping his wet hands on a drying cloth. He was probably one of the biggest men she'd ever laid eyes on. He was all solid muscle, and his striking features were etched with worry lines around his mouth and eyes.

He nodded to Arthur and approached them with a lazy grace she'd never believed a man of his size capable of.

"Another fight, Arthur?" Arthur turned to Reagan and it was then, at the mention of his name, she realized that she was standing before the king himself. Reagan felt herself falter and she didn't know what to do.

It was no wonder that he had taken care of the situation in the courtyard with such ease. She didn't know if she should curtsy and then remembered that she was supposed to be a boy. She quickly came to her senses and gave the man before her a great bow.

"Your majesty, forgive my manners, I knew not who you were until now," she added, hoping that her rudeness would be forgiven. She felt a reassuring hand on her back as she stood upright once again.

"None of that right, now. We need to make sure you are patched up properly." He gave her a sympathetic smile and guided her toward one of the beds closest to the fire.

Arthur stepped back and Lucan took to the farthest corner of the room, watching with a quiet interest as Dagonet approached Reagan.

"This isn't your doing, is it Lucan?" Reagan heard the boy suck in a breath as though he was being accused of something he didn't do.

"No, Dangonet." He answered quickly.

"Lucan is not at a fault here, it is entirely Gilly's work." Arthur interjected in a weary tone as he folded his arms across his chest and watched one of his most trusted knights do what he did best: heal.

Dagonet nodded silently as he lifted Reagan's chin in his large hand to inspect her newly split lip and bleeding nose with a gentleness that surprised her.

"Did you fall and hit your head, by chance?" Reagan fought the urge to roll her eyes at him as if it were not plainly obvious that she'd landed on her face. She curbed her temper and nodded respectfully, thinking it wise to hold her tongue in front of a healer and the king.

"His nose is not broken, but the fresh bruises on his face worry me. He will have to say here until tomorrow. I want to make sure that he's not suffered any more damage that I cannot see."

Out of her peripheral vision she saw Arthur nod and Lucan look at the floor as though he were ashamed.

Then, without a word of forewarning, Dagonet brought a wet cloth to her face and tenderly wiped at the blood on her nose. The fresh memory of Father William doing the very same thing brought other emotions bubbling to the surface and with out warning the tears she'd so bravely held at bay began to tumble from her eyes in embarrassing droves.

All three of the men looked away, becoming uncomfortable at the sight of the beaten boy crying. Reagan indulged herself for a few precious seconds before stemming her sobs with a strength she never thought she possessed. The absolute last thing she wanted was pity.

Grabbing at the wet cloth dangling from Dagonet's hand she made quick work of wiping the blood from her own face. Dagonet held out his hand and she placed the dirty towel in it without a second thought, briefly meeting the man's sad eyes. He gave her a begrudging smile and she suspected that the last thing on his mind as he looked at her was pity.

She watched as he made his way to the hearth and grabbed one of the mugs on the washbasin, filling it with the congealed green liquid boiling over the hearth.

Turning away in disgust, she silently prayed he didn't intend for her to drink the stuff. She was brought out of her thoughts as Arthur approached her.

"I admire you for your bravery," he began, and Reagan suspected he was trying not to lecture her as he took a deep breath. "But the next time you have an issue with something or someone, take it up with Jols. I have no wish to see you back in the healing rooms. If Father Daniel or Father William ever got wind of this incident I'd never hear the end of it."

Reagan looked at the young king, at a complete loss for words. He knew of her two priests and spoke of them in kind terms! She gave him a smile and immediately regretted it as her lip throbbed in pain. He have her a friendly pat on the shoulder and told Dagonet to look after her.

"I'll be sending someone in to check in on you after a time. Don't be surprised at what he has to say. I think you'll find that this person could be quite an asset for you." With that cryptic statement the king gave her a charming grin and left.

As if acting on cue, Lucan came up to her and sat on the edge of her bed, his large blue eyes looking at her in a different light now than he had before, and she was afraid for a second that she'd managed to lose another potential friend.

Without a word, he reached over and awkwardly pushed her on the shoulder, a reluctant grin spreading over his expressive face. Wholly surprised, Reagan laughed for the first time in what felt like an eternity and Lucan joined her.

The cheerful sound filled the silent room. After the horrible past few days and what seemed like a constant uphill battle since she'd learned her father had sold her to Rullus, something inside Reagan finally broke open and she felt a brief but wonderful moment of clarity.

It was a bright, safe sort of assurance, like when the sun hit the surface of a still lake and turned the flat ripples of water to diamonds, that no matter what happened, that no matter what she believed or how desperate she felt, she was most definitely not alone. Whatever came tomorrow she knew she had the strength to face it. With a strange sort of impervious determination, unaware if she was being foolish or not, Reagan knew that she would no longer hide in the shadows, afraid.

A/N: Well it appears that people only see what they want to see. Some are more observant than others but that still remains to be seen. One thing I know for certain, I would not want to meet Tristan in a dark forest late at night. As for Chapter 6, well you'll be pleased to know that it is well underway, perhaps Reagan's visitor will have more than just a proposition on his mind…until then Happy Reading! And to all of my readers in the States: Happy Thanksgiving!


	6. Chapter 6

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story, I only own Reagan. **

**Leigh and Jo, I can't express my gratitude, your editing skills are priceless. **

**This story is set 5 years after the battle of Badon Hill. It is AU because none of the Knights are dead. (Millie any questions about the timeline just ask!)**

**This is a Lancelot/OC and slight Galahad/OC paring.**

**All right here is Chapter 6 all of the speculating can stop, the identity of the mysterious visitor lies within.**

Chapter 6

Lancelot made his way to Arthur's chambers quickly, having taken the trip hundreds of times, it was one he could probably manage with his eyes closed. He knocked twice on the heavy oak door as was customary--he did not want to walk in on something private.

He respected Arthur and Guinevere's privacy and knew that whenever the couple could get a moment alone together they took advantage of it. It was fortunate that today the queen had gone on a hunt and Arthur was alone in his study going over various scrolls and maps of the surrounding lands.

He entered the private rooms quietly, watching his friend squint over the parchments laying about his desk and curse to himself as some of the lines before him wavered and blurred.

Lancelot approached the desk and looked over Arthur's shoulder, as there was nothing wrong with his eyesight, he read the map clearly, helping to point out the various rivers and hills that the king had so much trouble making out. Lancelot smiled to himself as Arthur begrudgingly gave him a murmured thank-you and tossed his charcoal pencils on the desk in frustration.

Lancelot went to the side table next to the desk and poured two goblets of wine. He handed his friend one before settling himself in one of the chairs across from Arthur. Lancelot took a sip of his wine and watched as Arthur steepled his fingers and placed them under his chin in a familiar gesture.

He was obviously settling in to pitch some idea to him that he'd probably not like. Arthur always pretended to give Lancelot a choice disguised as an order--it was an old trick and he fell for it every time. Becoming agitated at the long silence, he cleared his throat, rubbing his hand over his chin and scratching at his beard.

"Are you going to tell me what's on your mind, or are you going to stew over it for an eternity?" he asked, getting well past annoyed with Arthur's infernal hedging. If he hadn't known the king so well he would have taken the dirty look he received as a warning.

"Did Bors handle Gilly as expected?" Lancelot nodded, remembering the way the boy bravely confessed his crime to his father and only cowered once as Bors grabbed his tunic collar and dragged him into the family's living quarters, Lancelot left quickly after that, thinking it wise to let private matters such as a sound beating stay within the family walls.

"He may have trouble walking tomorrow, but the punishment was handled accordingly." He was hard pressed to feel compassion for the hotheaded boy. Gilly liked to bully those he deemed weaker than himself, and it was something that needed to be put under control before another hapless boy like Reagan became mangled for confronting him.

Lancelot inwardly cringed at the memory of the bloody and bruised stable boy trying valiantly and failing miserably to defend himself. He was surprised at the sense of relief he experienced when the fight was over, and he had been glad that Lucan was there to help Reagan.

Why he should feel such relief for a boy he barely knew was perplexing and it was something he'd rather not think about. Especially when Arthur was giving him that hard look as though he could read his thoughts.

"I know you are not going to want to hear what I have to say next," Arthur paused, taking a sip of his wine.

"Then don't say it," was Lancelot's flippant reply, hoping that maybe this one time his friend would take his suggestion and not press matters. Unfortunately, he wasn't that lucky.

"I believe it is time you took a squire."

Lancelot gave a weary sigh and rolled his eyes heavenward. "Arthur, how many times do we have to go over this? I have no need of a squire." His friend shrugged his shoulders and met his gaze plainly.

"You keep saying that, and I keep telling you that it's a waste of breath. You're my best and most trusted knight. The other knights and their squires have already started their training, it's time that you picked up the mantle and became the great teacher I know you to be. Under your tutelage Reagan could become a great knight. He has a noble heart and bravery in spades. He only needs you to--"

"Wait! Who said anything about _Reagan_ becoming my squire?" Lancelot interrupted, pressing his lips into a fine line. It was just like Arthur to force his opinions and suggestions on him when he had no desire to accede to them.

"Why not Reagan? He's the perfect pupil for you."

Lancelot gave a dark chuckle. "So you say. But the fact of the matter is, that boy needs to learn some respect. He doesn't think before he speaks, he has a foul temper and an obvious--albeit unconscious--death wish." The knight stated, as though those personality traits alone were reason enough why Reagan should not be his squire.

He failed to mention the fact that there was something very unsettling about the boy, something that Lancelot couldn't quite place his finger on, but there was definitely something _off_ about Reagan.

"Strange," Arthur drawled, "that sounds like someone I used to know." The king's green eyes twinkled in amusement and a hesitant grin spread upon his face. Lancelot pushed down his ire at the thinly veiled comparison and finished his wine in a few quick swallows. Setting his goblet down a little too roughly on Arthur's desk, he glanced up at the king.

"No, absolutely not. Give him to Tristan, he has no squire. Surely Tristan would be able to show the boy how to defend himself." Arthur sighed, rubbing his hand over his exhausted eyes.

He looked withdrawn and tired; the recent influx of rogue Saxon attacks had left their mark on the king. The strain of constantly worrying if the kingdom was protected enough was beginning to wear on him. Lancelot felt the niggling sensation of guilt settle in his gut as he watched Arthur.

"Tristan has no need of a squire; you and I both know this. Besides that fact, I think he would undoubtedly scare the piss out of the boy the first time they sparred."

Lancelot glared at Arthur, a reluctant smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth; the mental image alone was enough to make him think his friend had a point. Reagan wouldn't last five minutes as Tristan's squire.

Maybe Arthur was right; maybe what the boy needed was someone with a firm hand and a similar temperament.

Again, Arthur gave him that hard searching look and Lancelot was forced to look away. Damnation, he hated it when Arthur got the upper hand in their arguments; always making him see reason when all Lancelot wanted to see was doubt.

"Think about it." Arthur interrupted his internal musings, "Reagan is a good boy. Jols tells me he's a hard worker, he's terrible with the horses and makes a mess out of the stables, but he's a good lad. Just think about it," Arthur finished, before Lancelot had the chance to argue.

Lancelot nodded and started to make his way out, a good stiff drink in the forefront of his mind. Just as he stepped over the threshold Arthur called him back.

"Do me a favour, on your way to the tavern, stop in the healing rooms and see Reagan I want you to bring me a report from Ivy or Dagonet on his condition, just so I know you've been there."

"Anything else, your _majesty_?" he snapped sarcastically. Arthur's rumble of laughter was his only reply. Grinning, he steeled himself for a visit to the healing rooms, the very idea leaving him to wonder what he was getting himself into.

* * *

Reagan held her torn breeches in her hands and desperately tried not to nod off. 

The one thing she did not want was to be roughly shaken awake again; five times in one day was enough for her. Why they would not let her sleep when all she wanted to do was close her eyes and listen to the fire crackle in the hearth was beyond her.

With the last of her remaining strength, she concentrated on stitching together the torn seams with the thread Ivy had so kindly supplied her with. Dagonet and Lucan had left the healing rooms hours ago, and in the place of the healer and his squire was an apprentice named Ivy.

She was a quiet girl, much the same age as Reagan, with capable and graceful white hands and long red hair. In her unusual exhaustion, Reagan had thought she was the most beautiful creature she'd ever laid eyes on.

It was no wonder, she mused, and that none of the men of the fort thought her a peculiar-looking boy when this heavenly creature existed within the walls.

It was only when Ivy had first started to tend to her wounds and happened to turn to the left apply a salve to Reagan's cuts and scrapes, did she see the long, red, puckered scar that ran from the edge of Ivy's eye down to the tip of her mouth.

The ghastly looking line marred the porcelain perfection of the apprentice's face. At first she was so surprised by the scar that Reagan could not stop looking at it. Ivy was apparently used to the kind of attention Reagan was giving her.

Finishing her task quickly, she moved far away from her patient, self-consciously pulling her long red hair over her shoulder in an attempt to hide her flaw.

Immediately regretting the open fascination she displayed in front of the girl and forcing herself not to stare, Reagan thanked the apprentice, quietly doing her best to flash a friendly smile and look apologetic.

Ivy, having forgiven her transgression and taking pity on her, had asked if she could sew. Reagan had nodded and blinked in surprise as Ivy retrieved her torn red tunic and breeches from the basket she'd carried in earlier.

Happy and more than a little bewildered by the gesture, Reagan took to mending the clothing with a single-mindedness that even impressed Ivy. Glad to be given a task she could manage on her own without the aid of an eager, yet helpful stable boy, Reagan made fast work of mending the holes in her tunic and then moved on to the breeches.

Just as she started on the outside seam the door of the healing rooms burst open. A large blonde man suddenly appeared, half dragging, half carrying a younger looking dark-haired man through the doors and dumping him unceremoniously on one of the beds.

"He drunk himself silly, then fell and hit his head again," the blonde man huffed, struggling to catch his breath. He looked at the unconscious man on the bed and shook his head. "Stupid bastard."

Reagan watched as Ivy dropped her embroidery and rushed to the bedside of the younger man. Ivy made quick work of helping to move Galahad completely onto the bed and then gathered a washbasin of cold water and a few cloths. She dipped one of the cloths into the cold water and draped it over the dark-haired man's forehead.

"How long has he been unresponsive, Gawain?" The great blonde man shrugged his shoulders and thought over the question for a moment. A moment too long it seemed, as Ivy snapped again, "How long?"

"Perhaps a half hour, I don't rightly know." He shrugged again, blushing under Ivy's intense gaze. "I found him like that in an alley behind the tavern, would have brought him here sooner, but I only just found him." Reagan heard Ivy murmur something in response to Gawain's halfhearted apology but couldn't quite make it out.

All of Reagan's attention was held rapt by the gentle and sincere concern the girl displayed as she tended to the unconscious man. Ivy quickly went to the hearth and picked up the mug Dagonet had filled earlier with the green concoction.

Thankful that she'd not been made to drink the stuff, Reagan didn't bother to hide her curiosity as she watched Ivy prop the man's head up in one of her arms and spoon a large lump of the green stuff into his mouth.

Almost instantly he spluttered to life, choking and coughing, gasping for water. Gawain swiftly grabbed for a mug by the bed and handed it to Ivy. The move seemed almost too quick--as though it had been preformed many times before.

The young man eagerly gulped at the water Ivy held up for him, and when he was finished he lay bonelessly back down on the bed, his bleary eyes opening slightly and glaring daggers at the big blonde man before turning his attention to the woman who was replacing the cold cloth on his head.

A faint smile touched his handsome face and he closed his eyes in pleasure as her fingers grazed his skin. Suddenly, as though just realizing what she was doing, Ivy drew back her hand as though she'd been burned and quickly removed herself from the man's bedside. Once again, Reagan watched as she nervously pulled her long hair over her left shoulder.

"Sometimes I think he does this on purpose," Gawain grumbled, rocking back on his heals he watched the apprentice busy herself with a few jars of dried herbs. Reagan noticed an immediate change in the girl's demeanor once the man had awoken. It seemed as though she'd became wary as soon as he opened his eyes.

"You're here now, Galahad, are you_happy_?" Gawain said in an overly loud tone. Galahad mumbled something unintelligible and groped blindly for the cloth on his head, pulling it over his tightly closed eyes.

Gawain gave the bed a swift kick, knocking Galahad sideways for a moment. The drunken man righted himself with a bit of difficulty and cautiously lifted one corner of the cloth, taking stock of the room before finally settling on Ivy. Gawain gave a long dramatic sigh and shook his head.

"I'll be back for him in a couple of hours, Ivy. Thank you for indulging him." Ivy didn't bother to turn around and waved him away with a nervous flutter of her hand, managing to knock over a couple of jars from the shelf in the process. Reagan choked back a laugh with difficulty, wondering at the strange and awkward scene before her. She had to admit that she felt reluctant and puzzled compassion for the obviously shaken girl.

"You, boy!" the blonde man shouted, making Reagan jump. She dropped her sewing and stared up at the big man with wide blue eyes. "Make sure he doesn't try anything funny. If I hear he's made an even bigger fool of himself than he already has, it'll be your hide, understand?" Reagan nodded quickly as Gawain shook his finger at her.

She didn't know if she should take him seriously or not, but it was something she knew she probably didn't want to test. Apparently satisfied with the state of the newest patient in the healing rooms, Gawain left as loudly as he'd arrived, the door slamming shut behind him with a great bang that made Galahad put a hand to his eyes and moan in pain.

Smiling to herself, Reagan resumed her sewing, and pretended to ignore the longing, almost burning looks Galahad bestowed upon very disinclined Ivy. The healer didn't take up her place next to Reagan either, as she had expected.

Instead, Ivy managed to find ways to keep herself occupied that involved working as far away from her two patients as possible. Thinking that perhaps there was something unspoken going on between the young knight and the girl, Reagan decided it was best to leave it between the two and return to the mending of her torn breeches.

She would not get into the middle of what ever 'this' was and give Gawain good reason to tan her hide. She'd been bruised and bloodied plenty for one year.

Soon enough though, Reagan found that the new stitches she'd made began to get fuzzy and the strong urge to sleep began to creep in from the corners of her eyes. Taking Ivy's inattentiveness as a sign that she could finally close them, Regan gave in to the slumber that had not been allowed to her all day. Resting her hands in her lap, the mending forgotten, she felt her head loll to the side and the blessed blackness settle over her.

Before she had a chance to begin dreaming, she was roughly shaken awake with enough force to make her teeth rattle. Prying open her eyes she exhaustedly tried to focus on the face before her. Black curly hair and dark eyes swam into place, an arrogant grin completed the image before her, and she bit back a groan as she recognized her assailant.

"You're not supposed to sleep," he said and Reagan blinked at him dazedly. "Besides, I got permission from Ivy before I woke you. She said to give you a little shake, but I think I may have been overly enthusiastic with the task, given the way your head wobbled on your skinny little neck. You hit the wall a few times before you actually woke up."

Reagan reached up and rubbed the back of her head gently, the sharp shooting pain in the back of her skull lending his words credence. Insufferable man, she thought, did he come here to abuse her while she slept? Hadn't she suffered enough yesterday in the stables while he laughed at her?

Forcing down her irritation, she pushed herself back into a sitting position, wrestling with one of the pillows behind her back and almost rolling herself off the bed. Lancelot made a quick grab for her and as his hand wrapped around her upper arm, she could feel the heat from his skin burn through the thin sleeve of her tunic.

Reagan felt herself flush as he righted her once more. Startled by her reaction to his touch, she tried to ignore the burning of her cheeks as he regarded her with a bewildered and amused gaze.

"You are one of the most clumsy lads I've ever met." He said, his dark eyes shining, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. She forced her eyes from his lips and tried to make herself behave in a rational matter, although it appeared that she fighting a losing battle where this man was concerned.

"Are _you_ the person the king told me to expect?" she asked, unable to disguise a hint of bitterness in her voice. He did not answer right away, and she made a great show of pushing her hair behind her ears, deciding to study a crack on the wall opposite her instead of looking directly at him. Somehow that made it easier for her to concentrate.

"He never told me directly, but you can assume whatever you like. Arthur has an awful habit of not always being straightforward in his conversations." Reagan could hear the amusement in his voice and felt her gaze stray from the crack on the wall to his face once again.

He gave her a grin, as though happy to have her attention back, his flashing white teeth giving Reagan the impression of a wolf in man's clothing. She watched with that strange fascination she'd experienced with him before as he folded his arms across his chest.

He was immaculately dressed, as usual, and she wondered if he took as much care in all of his daily tasks as he did his appearance. Somehow she already knew the answer to that, as she watched the sleeves of his black tunic bunch and pull over the muscles in his arms and struggled to tear her eyes away again, wanting desperately to look at anything but him and finding it difficult to do so.

Reagan saw something move out of the corner of her eye and was relieved to see that Ivy had returned from her short excursion to find more herbs. She could hear Galahad snoring blissfully in the bed next to her and was thankful for the momentary distraction.

"She is a beautiful woman," Reagan said, in an attempt to divert Lancelot's attention elsewhere. Lancelot turned to look at the apprentice healer and nodded.

"She doesn't think so," he replied quietly. "It is in my experience, for a woman to be a beauty, she must first believe herself to be beautiful."

"And no doubt you have extensive experience with women?" Reagan snapped before she could stop herself, and immediately wished that she could have bitten out her tongue.

"I have little trouble with them, if that is what you are asking." She could again hear the mirth in his deep voice and inwardly cringed at her lack of tact. Getting tired of his looming, arrogant presence by her bedside, she once again found the handy crack in the wall opposite her and glared at it.

"Is there a purpose to this visit or are you just here to mock me?" Before he had a chance to answer she continued, "Because you really need not bother, I already feel like a fool most of the time."

"Well, then that is of your own doing. And yes, there is a purpose to this visit." That got her attention again and she looked up at him with wary eyes.

"After much deliberation and losing a rather heated argument, I've come to offer you a position," he said in that high-minded tone he'd used in the stables with her yesterday.

"Is that so?" She asked, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm I her voice. "Well I appreciate the offer but I already have a job. It's in the stables, if you don't remember, bullying that hell-beast of a horse of yours."

"Well, I've come to offer you another one," he went on, completely ignoring her pointed comment, "As my squire." Reagan snorted in disbelief, and regretted it as her sore nose began to burn in pain. She reached up and rubbed it softly, hiding her grin behind her hand.

"Your squire?" she asked, "What a wonderful opportunity! I get to tend to your ego and feed you your sweet cakes at teatime. Have I gotten all of the details right?"

He regarded her biting retort with one raised dark eyebrow, infuriating Reagan further.

"Shall I tell you the requirements of a squire?" Reagan shook her head at his obvious stubbornness; did he not just hear her insult him again? The man's arrogance knew no bounds!

"Having never had the advantages of your class and not knowing what a proper servant does for he-" She almost said "her", "his master, please enlighten me."

"You will clean my armour, tend to my horse, tend to me personally in any way that you can and," his eyes twinkled, "as you so eloquently put it, serve me my sweet cakes at tea time."

"Is that all?" She dared to ask, her obvious annoyance with him shining in her eyes.

"A true squire would train to be come a proper knight, learn the ways of the sword, how to wield a lance, as well as write his lord's letters, deliver his messages, and help protect his king and country when the time calls for it. Although I do not expect much from you as-" Reagan cut him off.

"As I am not of your station? Do you not think me smart enough to learn? I'll have you know I can read as well as write and I can do it in English as well as Latin, you tell me how many nobles can claim the same thing." Lancelot gave her an impressed nod.

"Well then, you are better at that than I am, boy, I only barely learned to read maps and the names of my kinsmen for that is all that I had a use for." Reagan looked away, slightly ashamed at her outburst.

"So you do accept?"

"I already told you I have a job, I'm a…a man. I will work and earn my own keep. I do not need the soft job of being your servant to make my way!" She heard him heave a great sigh and could feel his dark eyes burning into her; his voice was hard when he finally spoke.

"Seeing as I obviously have no real choice in this matter, you don't either. You will be my squire and you will learn to defend yourself and train to become a knight. If you don't, then the next time Gilly decides to make mincemeat out of you, no one will be there to stop him."

Reagan got up the nerve to look up at him after his harsh tirade. Taking her dispirited look for one of agreement, he bent down to look her in the eye and she fought the urge to flinch.

"Tomorrow, when you are finished in the stables, you will meet me on the training grounds. Do not be late or I'll take a switch to that skinny little body of yours and you won't be able to sit properly for days, understand?"

Reagan blinked up at him, at a loss for words. It appeared as though she didn't have a choice in the matter and, whether she liked it or not, she was now Lancelot's squire.

Satisfied with her lack of a retort he gave her a dark glare before making his way out of the healing rooms. She jumped at the sound of the door slamming shut behind him and she was left dazed from the entire encounter.

Trying not to really think too much about what had just transpired between herself and Lancelot, she resumed her mending with a detachment that spoke volumes of the changes taking place in her normally placid life.

One question kept repeating in her mind: how was she going to survive being squire to the first knight and not lose her head, literally? She stitched quietly, hoping that the menial task would help calm the shaking of her hands.

"I'd do what he says," Galahad said, startling Reagan so that she managed to prick her finger with her needle. Putting the sore appendage in her mouth, she sucked the blood from her finger.

The young knight had ceased snoring a while ago and Reagan had only noticed it now. Giving him a confused look, she didn't know how to react to his obvious eavesdropping. As he slowly and deliberately removed the wet cloth from his eyes, he regarded her with an honest and surprisingly lucid grey gaze.

"Once Lancelot makes up his mind about something, there is no turning back. You either go along with it or get lost in the shuffle." He turned onto his side and gave her a knowing smile, "You _don't_ want to get lost in the shuffle, trust me on that."

With a sinking feeling, as is felt by someone walking into a certain and deadly trap with no clear way out, Reagan knew that Galahad was right.

**A/N: And yes, I am leaving it there! First off I want to say thank-you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I was overwhelmed and stunned by the response and honored that Homeric gave 'Eternal Knight' a plug at the end 'Fragile'. She's the best beta a girl could ask for. Also a shout out to Sian who's been with me from the very beginning and the first one to guess correctly at Reagan's visitor:) I wish I could reply to all of my anonymous reviewers but as this site doesn't allow that I'm doing it here! THANKS! Chapter 7 is coming along swimmingly, you should have it before the holidays- it's a monster of a chapter so you'd best be prepared. Sparkleberry… have patience…all will be revealed in due time! **


	7. Chapter 7

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story, I only own Reagan.**

**Leigh and Jo: Thank you so much for sticking with me and encouraging me to continue writing this when I would have otherwise given up. You pointed me in the right direction and told me there was nothing wrong with the story then gave me a nudge to finish the path I had started. Eternal Knight wouldn't be half as good without you guys! Hugs!**

**This is a Lancelot fic and it's going to stay a Lancelot fic-Sorry Tristanlover.**

**I dedicate this chapter to Peachpaige and Murtagh799- even though we've never met- you both ROCK!**

Chapter 7

As the bright light of day slowly turned into the velvety blackness of night, the shifts changed again and Reagan said goodbye to Ivy as Dagonet returned from his duties. Lucan was close on his heals and he made a beeline for her bed before she had a chance to work up a proper hello. Her friend's blue eyes were alight with excitement and it looked as if he were bursting at the seams with energy.

"So you'll be at training tomorrow then?" he asked. "That is, if Dagonet says you're well enough."

"How do you _know_ these things?" Reagan asked, surprised, wondering exactly how fast news traveled through the fort. "I only just found out myself!"

"It's all over the kingdom. The king's first knight has finally chosen a squire, and of all the boys he had to pick from he chose you," Lucan said with a bit of awe in his voice. "When I said 'get yourself noticed,' I didn't think that having Gilly beat the daylights out of you would do the trick!" Reagan folded her arms and harrumphed.

"It wasn't like that. Lancelot said he didn't have a choice, and neither did I. I was forced into this--I told him I didn't want to be his squire!" Lucan gave her a shocked, slightly offended look.

"Not want to? What is the matter with you? Don't you see how great of an opportunity this is? You're going to be trained by Lancelot! He's the best knight there is…well aside from Dagonet, and well, he's not as scary as Tristan, but still. _Lancelot_!" he exclaimed, grabbing her arm and giving her a little shake, hoping that she would share in his excitement.

As much as she wished she could feel as positive as Lucan did about this new development, she couldn't even muster a weak "hooray". Instead all she felt was a slowly creeping sensation of dread in the pit of her stomach.

No good could come of her new position. It only made her more vulnerable to discovery and she didn't like the idea of being forced to work with Lancelot. Before she could begin to properly wallow in her dark thoughts, Dagonet's voice interrupted them.

"Lucan, Reagan needs his rest. He's not slept all day. Why don't you make your way down to supper? I'll be there to join you momentarily." Lucan sighed and agreed that Reagan did look tired.

"Your eye is looking better, not such a nasty shade of green any more," he added. She gave him a reluctant smile and Reagan wondered if his comment was a slightly misguided attempt to make her feel better.

"Thanks, Lucan. I'll see you in the stables tomorrow." He waved at her before exiting the healing rooms. Now that her friend was gone and along with him his enthusiasm for her new position, Reagan was settling in to brood.

Unfortunately, Dagonet chose that moment to shove a steaming mug under her nose. The scent of mint and something sharp wafted toward her. Giving the knight a weary look, she took the mug and hesitantly took a sip.

Immediately her nasal passages cleared and her mouth was flooded with the taste of the aromatic herb followed by the tang of something very bitter. She crinkled her nose in a grimace and realized he'd laced the drink with ground willow bark.

"My Lord, why did you put willow bark in this?"

Dagonet gave her a surprised look before he answered her, "It's to help with the pain and aid you in sleep. How did you know it was willow bark? Do you have a knowledge of medicinal herbs?"

Reagan nodded, "Yes. I used to…help my mother in the garden when I was younger. She...uh...encouraged me with plants," she lied. Dagonet was silent for a moment and she hoped he wouldn't press the issue further.

Instead she watched as he picked up her mended tunic from the edge of the bed. Reagan's brow creased in confusion as he began looking at the newly made stitches as though he were examining them, then he pulled at the fabric and bunched the tunic in his fist as if to test their strength.

Dagonet handed her back her tunic and placed his large hands on his hips, regarding her with a speculative look.

"Did you mend that tunic or did Ivy?"

"I did, my Lord," she answered honestly. He nodded, and pulled up a chair next to her.

"You have a basic knowledge of herbs and you can sew quite well. Two things I find strange that boy of your age would be capable of." Reagan nodded and pretended to take a sip of her drink. She couldn't quite manage to look the healer in the eye.

"Nevertheless, I wonder, would you consider leaving the stables and coming to work with me and Ivy?" At that, Reagan choked on her drink. As she coughed and spluttered, sitting forward so that she could breathe better, she felt Dagonet pat her gently on the back to help clear her lungs. After she caught her breath she looked up at the big knight, her face going red with embarrassment.

"You don't have to answer right away, but I can tell you that you would be greatly needed. We have a garden behind the healing rooms that is in desperate need of someone with a nurturing hand. I fear neither Ivy nor myself have a very gentle hand when it comes to plants. We can tend to them, yes, but they are in a sorry state most of the time," he said, a slight smile spreading across his face.

Reagan shook her head and blinked at him a couple of times wondering if he was serious. Come and work here? In this lovely warm room, with all of these herbs and the promise of a garden, with nary a horse in sight? It was almost too good to be true and Reagan wondered if it was.

"I appreciate the offer, my Lord, but my job is in the stables. Jols was good enough to take me in, it would hardly seem prudent to walk out on him now." Dagonet gave her a brief nod.

"I admire your loyalty, but I would like you to consider my offer. Sleep on it and I'll ask after you in a few days." She smiled and thanked him quietly.

"Now, finish all of that tea and try to sleep. You have a long day ahead of you--I seriously doubt that Lancelot will make your first day an easy one." With that said, he left Reagan to finally ponder the mess she'd somehow gotten herself into.

She sipped her drink and stole a look at the snoring knight in the bed next to her. Dagonet hadn't said anything about him being here and Reagan wondered how many times Galahad 'hit his head' in a week just to come and see Ivy. Smiling to herself at the thought of the obviously lovesick knight, Reagan had to guess it was quite a lot.

Making quick work of finishing her pungent drink, she set the mug down and curled up on the bed. Her head throbbed and her various cuts and scrapes twinged in pain, but as soon as she was settled, she drifted off into a blessedly deep blackness that was hindered only by Galahad's loud snoring.

* * *

The next day, Reagan was given a modest breakfast of dark brown bread and cheese, then another cup of one of Dagonet's special medicinal brews, in which she suspected ginger and wormwood were used to help her get her energy back. Ivy helped apply a fresh patch of salve to the scrapes on her face and then Reagan was sent back to the stables. 

Jols was happy to see her return, giving her a hardy pat on the back and almost knocking her over. Reagan suspected that the jovial man did not know his own strength. He put her to work straight away, handing her pitchfork and dung bucket then pointing her in the direction of Skye's stable.

She sighed and shuffled toward the horse. So after she was finished with Skye, it was back to fighting Malachi and then later his master that she had to look forward to.

Dagonet's offer of work in the healing rooms became more and more appealing as the day dragged on. Tristan's horse, Skye, was a beautiful grey mare with an easy temperament who happened to be quite friendly and cooperative for Reagan. It was no wonder Lucan had remarked that he liked her best. Reagan had to agree, she thought as she gently stroked the mare's soft nose.

Taking care of Skye also made her think of her master. Why such an aloof and downright frightening man like Tristan would have such a beauty of a horse was puzzling. As if sensing her thoughts, Skye nudged Reagan's shoulder affectionately; she was happy to be back in her clean stall again. Reagan quickly finished with Skye, filling her feed bucket for her and sneaking her a couple of extra carrots before moving on to her neighbor Malachi.

As it turned out, Malachi was in another one of his moods, and by the time she was finished for the day in the stables Reagan was exhausted and would have given anything to spend the rest of the day sleeping. Happily, she had not run into Gilly at all the entire day.

Reagan knew she was late as she grabbed her cloak and made her way down to the training grounds. Not knowing exactly where they were, she had to stop and ask Ganis for directions. He pointed her to a clearing just outside of the stables. She thanked him and made a mad dash for the area, hoping that her haste would save her from the threat of the switch Lancelot had so angrily touted yesterday. Although not sure what to expect, she was surprised to find the entire area completely devoid of anyone.

She had expected to see Lancelot somewhere in the general vicinity but there was nothing but an open green field and wooden targets set up for archery practice. The wooden fence that surrounded the grounds was large and Reagan draped her cloak over one of the fence posts. Sighing, she sat down on the grass and waited, a bit more than irritated that she'd skipped supper again in her attempt to be on time, when in fact the person she was to be 'meeting' was glaringly late.

Reagan leaned her back against the fence post and felt herself begin to doze. The wooden archery targets straight in front of her began to blur and the painted bull's-eyes swam before her eyes. Her exhaustion was a tangible thing. Never in her life had she worked as hard as she had in last week since she'd arrived at the fort.

Just as the thought of leaving and going straight to the kitchens for a warm bowl of stew was beginning to sound appealing, Lancelot finally decided to make an appearance. Pushing herself up off the ground, she folded her arms across her chest and jutted her chin out in clear defiance.

"You're late." She ground out and watched as he shrugged his shoulders in blatant carelessness and met her glare with one of his own.

"Well, it couldn't be helped. I had urgent business to take care of, and, besides, one of the things you so obviously need to learn is patience." Reagan looked at him and took stock of his usually pristine appearance gone awry.

His tunic was wrinkled and looked as if he'd pulled it on in haste, not to mention the fact that his thick curly hair looked as though someone had taken extreme pleasure in running their fingers through it just moments ago.

It wasn't his obvious lack of propriety that made her temper flare. What really galled her was the fact that he'd threatened her so readily the day before about being late and then kept her waiting while he took care of some "urgent business."

"Yes, urgent business indeed. It appears you put your tunic on backward, my lord," she said with heavy contempt. Reagan's irritation flared again as he grinned and immediately fixed his tunic in front of her, allowing her a glimpse of sun-bronzed skin peaking out from beneath the hem, and she had to wonder if he realized what he was doing. Obviously not. Reagan turned away from him, hoping he wouldn't see the blush creeping up on her cheeks. Catching her look, he finally finished righting his clothing.

"Are you jealous?" he asked, purposely taunting her. Before she could rise to the bait he continued, "You've got nothing to worry about, squire. When you're my age the women will be quite fond of you. You have a nice looking face--I'd imagine, anyway, beneath all those bruises and cuts--and hopefully you won't manage to ruin it on the battlefield. Women like pretty faces on their men."

"Like yours?" she asked and mentally chastised herself. She heard him chuckle at her comment and she turned back to him. Lancelot regarded her with a look of pure amusement. She hated it when he looked at her like that–when his impossibly dark eyes flashed, it made her feel strange and she didn't like it.

"Yes, like mine. Stick with me, Reagan, I'll teach you everything you need to know about the fairer sex." She wanted to shout at him that she knew more than he ever would about the 'fairer sex' but held her tongue, thinking it wise not to let her temper get the best of her. Reagan knew that she had a tenuous grasp on her self-preservation where Lancelot was concerned.

"Good, already you're learning to curb that tongue of yours." Reagan pressed her lips into a fine line at his offhand remark and followed him to the center of the clearing, clearly holding on to the last shreds of her sanity as she watched him roll up the sleeves of his tunic.

"Lets get on with this. I want to test your strength before we start anything." Before she could say another word to that, he dropped himself to the ground and Reagan stared at him in bewilderment, watching as he laid himself belly first on the grass and began repeatedly pushing his body up off the ground with his arms.

Lancelot's muscles bulged as he pushed himself up again and again and Reagan didn't quite understand what was happening. Rolling himself to his side he propped himself up on his elbow and motioned for her to come closer. Not quite knowing what her feet were doing she moved hesitantly closer to him.

"I want to see how many of those you can do." he said, barely winded. From having just watched him demonstrating with practiced grace, she assumed the task was fairly easy.

"Fine." she agreed, a bit too readily. Dropping herself to her belly, she placed her palms on the grass and pushed herself up with her arms. Reagan managed to repeat the exercise twice; the third time her tired arms began to ache and tremble, and on the fourth try she barley managed to push her torso off the ground without trouble.

"You're too soft!" she heard him exclaim next to her, and he grabbed the back of her breeches, lifting her bottom off the ground as she tried again to do another push-up. As she failed even with his aid, Lancelot gave a disappointed sigh and let go of her without a word of warning. Reagan fell to the ground, all the air in her lungs escaping her in a choked gasp of surprise.

"Too much sitting! What have you done with your life, boy? It'll take months to firm you up! Months!" he said, exasperated.

"It's not as easy as it looks!" Reagan replied, chagrined.

"Easy? No, it's not easy and you're about the weakest boy I've met."

"Weak?" she exclaimed, "I am not weak!"

"Oh really, well then you tell me why you have arms the size of willow branches and can barely lift your own weight off the ground, even with my help?" Reagan tried not to see red at his accusations, but she couldn't help it. She was not weak; it was the fact that his exercises were completely unreasonable. She chose to ignore the almost too personal comments he'd made about her body.

"I didn't ask for this, you pompous noble! I told you this wouldn't work!" she practically yelled. Fed up with his harassment, she stomped past him thinking only of leaving the training grounds, and was surprised when she was yanked back by her arm with enough strength to make her stumble to a halt, tripping over her own two feet in the process.

"I have a name and I would prefer that you use it," he said in that low menacing tone she'd heard before. Reagan couldn't stop the shiver she felt low in her belly and she raised hesitant and weary eyes up at him.

"You want me to call you by your given name?" she asked, a bit surprised at his acquiescence. Lancelot shook his head, gripping her arm even tighter.

"Since you are my squire and I am your commander, I think _my lord_ will suffice in this situation, don't you agree?" He asked with a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. Reagan swallowed hard and reluctantly nodded. Lancelot let go of her abruptly and she righted herself with a bit of difficulty.

"Good. Now that that's settled, let's continue, shall we, boy?" She wanted to continue this training like she wanted the plague but she knew she had to go along with it if she ever hoped to keep her gender a secret.

"Should I practice some more, _my lord_?" she asked in a clipped tone. Lancelot brought his fingers up to eye level, inspecting his nails with deliberate indolence, and it made Reagan want to slap him silly.

"No, squire, I think some running will do you well, you're legs are..." She watched as his eyes traveled down to her legs and the borrowed breeches she wore, which were a bit tighter than usual. Reagan watched as he stared at her legs for a moment, a strange look crossing over his features.

Reagan grinned at his expression, happy for once that at least one part of her was unmistakably female. She folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot impatiently, jarring Lancelot out of whatever it was he'd been so preoccupied with.

"You were saying, my lord, something about…my legs." She waved her hand at him, encouraging him to continue his interrupted train of thought. Lancelot visibly shook himself, clearing his throat he looked at her directly, apparently any and all ideas of her legs gone for the moment.

"Running, you need to run laps. I think five around the field will get you off to a good start." Reagan stared at him with one raised eyebrow: laps? Was the man serious?

"Go!" he snapped at her as if she should have already started. Apparently he was and Reagan started running. The first lap went well, the second her legs started to ache, and by the third her lungs burned.

The field looked large but one didn't really get the idea of how big it was until you had to run around it repeatedly. The fourth and the fifth lap were torture and when she was done she grabbed the fence for purchase, so winded it took her a full minute to catch her breath. Lancelot patted her on the back a little too roughly and Reagan had to wonder if he was hitting her or trying to help her.

"That was a good start lad, I think that if we increase this regimen tomorrow and introduce a couple of new exercises I'll have you made into a man in no time."

"Increase?" she gasped, "New…exercises?" The thought made her want to cry.

If she had to continue with this and the stables, Reagan was convinced she'd be dead in a week. The sound of his laughter was all most too much for her to bear.

"It's not so bad, boy, today was light compared to what is to come. Now you must be hungry, I can't put any muscle on you if you don't eat! Come, let us get some food." Before she had a chance to argue he started pulling her toward the tavern.

Once inside he pushed her down on to a wooden bench and signaled to one of the maids for food. Reagan was so exhausted she didn't even blink when a bowl of steaming mutton stew was plunked down in front of her and a goblet of spiced wine along with it.

She ate and drank half asleep, not caring much for the food. Just as she started to nod off she felt Lancelot grab the back of her tunic and pull her upright.

"Not yet, boy! This is no place for sleeping." Reagan blinked at him, irritated that he'd kept her for this long, irritated that he looked so interesting in the low torch-lit tavern, where his sharp angular features and dark hair stood out in stark relief. Wanting to be as far away from him as possible she asked,

"Am I excused for the night, my lord?" Lancelot nodded, sipping on his spiced wine grabbing for her bowl of unfinished stew.

"Off with you. Sleep, you'll need it for tomorrow." Reagan felt elated at his words and mumbled a halfhearted thank-you. Clutching her cloak around her shoulders, she shuffled toward the servants' quarters, her bunk the only thing on her mind.

She was just about there when something caught her attention; there was the figure of a man leaning against the outer wall. He held something in his hands and she caught the glint of metal in the dim light of the torches. Reagan slowed down her approach and pulled her cloak tighter around herself as recognition hit her. It was Tristan, the knight she'd met in the forest.

He stood there whittling away at a piece of wood with wickedly sharp looking dagger, one foot propped against the wall to balance his weight. He glanced up at her as she approached; he said nothing yet he didn't take his eyes off her as he continued to deftly slice at the wood in his hand.

Reagan cleared her throat. "Evening, my lord," she said, her voice cracking and betraying her unease. He tipped his chin her way, signaling he'd heard her. She stopped and hovered on the threshold of the servants' quarters, wondering what he would do if she tried to make a mad dash inside and lock him out.

Reagan thought it best not to test it.

Finally after what seemed like an eternity, he spoke, startling her so that she jumped despite herself.

"Thought you might be interested to know…" he paused, the edge of his knife catching on a difficult piece of wood which he got rid of with an efficient flick of his wrist. "There were some men here earlier, looking for a girl named Reagan."

At his words her heart sank and a cold wash of fear skated up her spine. Tristan met her alarmed and surprised gaze evenly, his stark countenance giving none of his thoughts away, the torchlight played with the planes and angles of his face. Making him look more foe then friend.

"There is an award out for her. Twenty-five silver coins to whomever returns her alive. They say she is dangerous. They say that she is a witch."

"R-Really?" Reagan asked, trying to feign ignorance. "A w-witch, you don't say?" She gave a hysterical little giggle, unable to stop herself, and clutched at her cloak with white-knuckled hands. "Why do you th-think I'd be interested in this?" The taciturn knight shrugged his shoulders with idle grace, wiping the blade of his dagger on the hem of his faded tunic.

"Don't know really." His keen amber colored eyes bored into hers and Reagan shrank away from him instinctively. "Just thought you'd like to know." Reagan tried to swallow around the lump of fear in her throat and gave the knight a curt nod.

"Well, I'll keep my eye out for her. I could certainly use twenty-five silver coins." At that, Tristan tucked the piece of wood into his pocket and slid his dagger into his boot. He said nothing as he ambled past her and she watched his silhouette fade into the shadows.

Reagan stood outside the servant's quarters, her heart pounding a fierce tattoo against her ribs. _Tristan knew_. He knew she was a girl and Rullus had sent men to look for her. With the sensation of dread thick in her stomach, Reagan knew that it was only a matter of time before her carefully crafted ruse came crumbling down around her.

**A/N**: I will be the first to say that this is not a historically accurate fic, it is a some what light hearted romance, with a heavy dash of adventure and a whole lot of misunderstanding thrown in. I trust my readers, my reviewers (all of you have been wonderful) and I trust my betas. If at any time, any of you suspect I've created a MarySue, please tell me (in a kind way not in a flame). As it stands I'm going to continue writing this like I had planned. Don't be startled by my potrayl of Tristan, there is a reason for it, I assure you. Chapter 8 is started and I will see everyone in the New Year! **Happy Holidays Everyone!**


	8. Chapter 8

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story, I only own Reagan. **

**Lots of thanks to the beta team! Leigh, Jo and Murt you guys do a great job of editing and making this story that much more enjoyable to read. I couldn't do it with out you!**

**First off, I want to apologize to everyone- making you wait almost two months is not fair. I wish I could have posted sooner but my timing was off and my personal life and professional life kept me way too busy. I do want you all to know that in the time I was away I was constantly thinking about the story and I was indeed writing. A brief update is at the end of this chapter- in case you were wondering if you'd have to wait another 2 months for chapter nine. I can guarantee you won't!**

**Maria, Maja and Jessica here is chapter eight- I'm sorry it took so long! Sain my dear, I hope you can forgive me for the long wait. Ellen and Nicole your comments always make me smile. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.**

Chapter 8

In the days that followed her revealing encounter with Tristan, Reagan was constantly on guard, wary of any strangers and startling more easily, much to her dismay. This, in turn, garnered her more strange looks from the men she worked with, Lancelot and Lucan in particular.

Worry was in the forefront of her mind now more than ever and Father William's gentle prod from weeks ago about Rullus hiding around every chasm and corner of the fort was beginning to seem more like a reality. She could not shake the feeling that she was being watched and even at times followed.

Though they had not spoken since their short and to the point conversation, Reagan was under the impression that Tristan had meant to warn her, not to scare her.

Even though the scout's unspoken yet clear allegations that he knew her true identity never left her thoughts and did nothing to ease her paranoia, but he neither sought her out nor tried to accost her in anyway after that night.

The strange knight had left her completely alone. Still, it remained that there were too many questions left unanswered, too many things left unspoken, and if Reagan hadn't been so incredibly wary of Tristan she would have sought him out herself.

As it was she knew that there would be no easy way to explain to anyone why Lancelot's squire requested a private audience with the King's scout, so all of her burning questions were left unaddressed. It was just as well, she supposed, as she didn't think she'd like any of the answers Tristan might supply her with.

"Are you going to take root?" Lancelot's voice cut through Reagan's thoughts the same way she imagined one of his sharp swords sliced through his opponents.

Snapping back to attention, she wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the heavy sword in her hands, dragging the tip of the blade in the dirt as she did so. She braced her feet a shoulder's width apart and tried to concentrate on both the new lesson and the fact that she was on the training grounds and not lost somewhere inside her head.

Reagan had been given a heavy, old practice sword, which was tarnished and worn with age, but it was newly sharpened and now in her care. She'd been told to keep the sword until she got used to carrying the weapon around and learned to make good use of it, but she was adjusting to having another much larger weapon in her possession besides her dull dagger. She looked Lancelot directly in the eye and nodded.

"Good, now come for me." He waved her forward; his right arm rose, holding one of his swords up at the ready. Reagan blinked at him.

"What?" she asked, not disguising her surprise. She'd not had any practice with swordplay and today was the first day Lancelot hadn't made her start with his strenuous and completely unreasonable exercise regimen, which she grudgingly had to admit she was beginning to get used to.

They had practiced archery a week before, and while she was strictly a novice, she was proving a better archer than swordsman, though neither activity was one she was particularly good at.

"By the gods, Reagan, if you don't pay attention to what I am saying to you, how do you expect to learn anything?" Lancelot snapped at her.

"I am paying attention!" she shot back, annoyed that he'd noticed her lack of interest. If there was one thing she'd learned in the almost two weeks they'd been training together, it was that there was very little she could hide from her commander.

It was one of the things she first found out about him. For all that he appeared aloof and shallow to those around him, Lancelot was in reality the complete opposite and it was the first real crack in his façade that Reagan could discern.

He was intelligent, strategic, slightly manipulative and with a temper that often got the best of him at times when things went beyond his control. He was also a very imperfect man, so far from the gallant and romantic ideals she'd had about noble knights, that it had been a hard lesson for her to learn at first.

Lancelot was scarred, tarnished, and brutal. Slowly, and she believed, deliberately, he destroyed any false impressions she might have had about him and his mysterious past.

The same could be said about all of Arthur's knights: they had seen and done much that they didn't openly regret, but could be read in their expressions from time to time when their masks of indifference slowly began to melt away from exhaustion or drink.

It was a sad fact that Reagan had to learn to ignore if she wanted to keep the much-needed separation between this false life and the one she sought to regain while hiding under this farce.

All thoughts of comfort and sympathy for him were tucked away, as he would never have accepted her pity and she needed to plug on as squire to the first knight, despite the increasingly difficult time she was having with it. A boy would not have the desire to comfort their knight, she reminded herself harshly.

Being his squire had earned her a measure of respect that she had not counted on. It was something she was still trying to get used to. That and taking orders from him, when sometimes all she wanted to do was shout right back at him that she'd do no such thing.

"Reagan!" Once again his voice cut clear through her thoughts and she visibly shook herself.

"Sorry, my lord," she replied, hoping she sounded sincere.

"Pick up the sword and come for me, before I run mine through you for being so lax today!" Doing as he bid, she lifted the heavy weapon, her arms straining to hold it steadily in front of her. She started forward and swung at him in a wide arc, which he dodged easily.

"Try again!" Lancelot ordered, moving back in place. She nodded and tried again, bringing the blade in front of her and swinging at him, but he blocked her clumsy attack easily. Arms trembling, she lowered the sword and took a deep breath.

"There has to be a trick." she wheezed, thinking that she'd never make it through the day if he insisted they continue this way.

"You give up too easily. There is no trick; you are just holding it wrong. Your attack is all backwards," Lancelot replied, disappointment in his voice. Reagan glared at him and he gave her a grin in return, obviously baiting her once again.

Angry with herself for taking his opinions to heart, she started again. Swinging at him once, twice, three times in a continuous and instinctive attack, he blocked all three attempts without breaking a sweat and even managed to push her backward in the process.

"That was a good try, boy, but you're putting too much of your strength in the movements of your arms. Save your power for the downward blows, not the forward motion of your swing." Picking up the second of his swords he twirled both blades in his hands and made quick crossing movements in the air.

"Try to use a quick movement, the most efficient swing possible." Reagan gave a great sigh and rolled her eyes.

"I have been trying to do that very thing! The sword is too heavy."

"The sword is not too heavy, you are still too weak. Do we need to return to our strength exercises?" The thought of going back to the exercise regimen made her muscles tighten up in agony.

"No!" she answered a bit too quickly. Lancelot gave her a reluctant smile and sheathed both of his swords before she could blink. Walking the short distance between them, he pried the old sword out of her grasp.

Reagan stared up at him, really looking at him for the first time that day. The sun beat down on his dark head, giving his curls a chestnut hue. He was dressed in his usual black, and with the twin swords resting on his back, she was just beginning to get a sense of how very deadly and very dangerous he was.

Today wasn't the first day he'd handled a weapon in front of her, but it was the first day he'd demonstrated just how he used a weapon and it had her wondering in twisted curiosity how many men he'd felled with those practiced and graceful swings.

Lancelot held out the blade before him, closing one eye and looking down the length of the sword as he sliced it through the air with practiced ease before handing it back to her. Reagan accepted the sword once again and did not stop her gasp of surprise as he reached for her hand and wrapped it around the hilt properly.

The feel of his rough and calloused palm against her hand made her swallow hard. The contact was so unexpected that she blinked and could do nothing but stare at his chest, her eyes locking on the bright glint of silver thread woven into his black tunic.

Taking a deep breath, she was overwhelmed with the familiar smell of him. Leather, sweat, and some delicious spicy scent wafted back towards her enquiring nose and she felt her throat close up further. Startled once again by her bizarre reaction, Reagan desperately tried to concentrate on what he was doing.

"Hold it like this, make sure your grasp is firm and strong." He squeezed her hand with his and she nodded. Looking at his hand covering hers, her brows knit together in confusion as the strange feeling she could only attribute to him and his nearness once again settled in her belly.

"Understand?" he asked, and she wondered if she imagined the hint of huskiness in his voice as he said it. The spell was broken as he stepped away from her and she finally dragged her eyes up to his. Apparently she'd been the only one affected by the exchange. _Nothing new there_, she thought bitterly.

Why that should bother her was a question better left un-answered. Lancelot, she knew, was a widely sought after bachelor who never hid from her his taste for feminine company.

Reagan had to remind herself that she was supposed to be a boy, and that she would do herself a great favor by tamping down any bizarre and girlish ideas she had about her commander.

A _boy _would not get jealous when Lancelot took other women to his bed. A _boy_ would not have the strange urge to rip out the blonde locks of the very beautiful and curvaceous serving wench in the tavern every time her heavy lidded gaze strayed to Lancelot. A _boy_, she had to remind herself, would do or feel none of those things.

With a morose sigh, Reagan had to admit, for probably the hundredth time since she'd donned her disguise that pretending to be a boy was not as easy as it first sounded. Especially not lately, when the completely dangerous hope that he'd notice her for the woman she was, not the boy she was supposed to be, began to enter her thoughts more frequently. It was a silly and very hazardous fantasy that she needed to remove from her head once and for all.

"Now I want you to try something before we get back to your exercises." Lancelot said interrupting her thoughts. "I will give you another chance to come at me and I will stand perfectly still--this will give you a chance to strike me."

Reagan looked at him, confusion apparent in her expression; he wanted her to hit him? He smiled at her confidently, folding his arms across his chest and tipping his chin her way, signaling to her his belief in her swordsmanship.

"Lift the sword above your head and bring it straight down on me. If you can do that you will hit me."

"But I could hurt you, I could…"

"Do you think I give a damn if you could hurt me? If you can do this we will be finished for the day. Think of all the times I've tortured you on this training field. If you don't do this I'll make you run twenty laps and clean my armor again without supper!"

Reagan would be damned if she would be made to clean his armor again or run laps. Either one was a task she loathed. Determined to get this right, Reagan raised the sword above her head and just as both of her arms were straight up, the blasted weight of the sword began to drag her body backwards.

She toppled over, practically folding in half as she crashed to the ground in one crumbling, shaking heap. She looked up to see Lancelot bending down toward her, both hands braced on his knees. He shook his head in reproach, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was then that Reagan knew she'd been had.

"Get up, squire, and try that move again, only this time I want you to lift the sword above your head fifteen times in a row. I will be watching you, and if you stop I will make you start over again and double the amount of lifting." She rolled to her knees and stood, grabbing the sword, and began lifting it above her head again and again.

Lancelot nodded his approval and made his way over to where Galahad was training with his squire Finn, a boy of sixteen with carrot-colored hair and a friendly smile. Lancelot's back was turned to her and Reagan shot him a rebellious glare. She had the defiant urge to stop this ridiculous exercise he'd inflicted upon her. Just as she was temped to drop the sword in the dirt, Lucan appeared at her side.

"I wouldn't stop if I were you, just because his back is toward you does not mean he has stopped watching you." Reagan gave him a pained look and he leaned against the tree next to her, grinning. "Come on! You're at five now, only ten to go!" Reagan lifted the sword again and her arms and shoulders screamed in agony.

"Sometimes…" She huffed, "I really hate you, Lucan." She heard him chuckle and she continued lifting the sword. Finally she'd managed to finish all fifteen turns and felt the sword fall from her exhausted grasp and hit the dirt with a clang. Sweat dripped into her eyes and made her short hair stick to her forehead. Her undershirt clung to her chest beneath her blue tunic and the binding on her breasts was completely soaked through.

At that moment, Reagan thought wearily, she wanted nothing more than a hot meal and a cool dip in her pond. Lucan came around and picked up her sword before handing it to her.

"You'll get it eventually. You're already a lot stronger than you were at the beginning. I don't even have to help you move the horses in the stables anymore." he said, trying once again to make her feel better. She gave him a grateful smile; thankful for his vote of confidence when she was sure she didn't deserve it.

"You'd do well to start taking care of your weapons. I think I might have an old scabbard that would fit this, you can have it if you'd like." Taking her sword from him, she nodded.

"Thanks, Lucan, that would be really nice." The boy shrugged and gave her a lopsided grin. "Where is Dagonet?"

"We're done for the day and he had to take care of someone--apparently it was urgent because he sprinted down to the healing rooms with out even saying goodbye." Reagan wondered if another woman was in labour. Spring was upon them and it seemed that some of the women in the village became more round with child each day.

"You did well, squire, you didn't stop like I expected you to." Lancelot said as he swaggered toward them. "I'll be sure to add that to our regimen tomorrow." Reagan fought the urge to roll her eyes at his roundabout compliment and bit back a groan at the thought of lifting the sword again the next day.

"Thank you, my lord. Am I excused for the night?" she asked, hoping that she might be able to sup with Lucan. She missed her friend and they rarely had any chance to talk.

"Yes, I have been summoned to an impromptu but urgent meeting. I expect you to report to my quarters before you turn in for the night, however." Reagan knew she looked visibly relieved at being excused for the evening and it was impossible to ignore the slightly chagrined look she received from her commander in response.

Taking every last ounce of her self-restraint not to skip happily off the training grounds with Lucan, she made sure to take extra care of her new-old sword and followed Lucan to the kitchens for a supper of cold pheasant, bread and cheese. The meal was a happy one, for once she ate her fill and she was glad not to be surrounded by serving wenches with wandering eyes and flattering torchlight. Reagan was especially happy as her usual supper company distracted her enough that she forgot to eat entirely.

After the meal she gathered a change of clothing from her bunk in the servant's quarters. She smiled to herself as she picked up a midnight blue tunic with golden piping and brown breeches. The new clothes that had been purchased for her from Gilly's docked wages were the nicest set of clothing she'd had in a long time, despite the fact that they were meant for a boy.

With her repaired tan breeches and red tunic and Lucan's borrowed clothing, which he had never reclaimed, she now had three sets of clothing at any given time, which pleased her in spite of the sorry state of her undergarments. Grabbing a fresh chunk of soap and making sure her dagger was tucked safely away in her boot, she made her way down to the same pond she'd used for bathing since that first fateful night in the forest.

She twice looked over her shoulder, assuring herself that she was alone as she tried to shake the feeling that she was being followed. Reagan made quick work of washing, making sure that her binding cloth was the first and last thing she removed but managing to scrub it completely nevertheless.

Wrapping her breasts once again as tightly as she could, she grimaced as she tried to get used to the pain of having them pressed down before pulling on the clean tunic and well-fitted breeches. She made her way proficiently and easily out of the forest and away from her pond.

As she reached the forest edge, she was startled by a large figure cutting its way across the field straight toward her. Realizing she was completely alone, and thinking a weak attempt at self-defense was a better tactic than fainting dead away from fright, she reached for her dagger. Holding the sad little weapon in front of her she was about to call out when instead a familiar voice called out to her.

"Reagan!" Recognizing that particular tenor as Lucan's, she ran toward him, wondering why he had come in search of her so late in the evening.

"It's all over the kingdom," he panted, clearly out of breath once she reached him. Carefully tucking her dagger away she waited for him to continue.

"You're to leave tomorrow at first light. The king has sent Lancelot and Galahad on a mission in the North Country. There has been recent Saxon attacks on numerous villages north and the king as decided that something has to be done about it. Arthur has already sent a scouting party—led by Tristan--ahead of them to plot a proper course, who is to meet you in your camp two days hence. "

"Wait? I'm leaving as well?" Reagan asked, suddenly confused at this abrupt turn of events. He gave her a look as if she should have already known the answer to that question. Reagan was finding it difficult to grasp that she was to travel north with Lancelot and Galahad and Tristan, with no clear indication of when she could return. In her opinion it couldn't get any worse.

"_Yes!_ You and Finn are to accompany your commanders on the mission. Come on! You've got to get back and report to Lancelot! He's already tearing up half the kingdom looking for you."

"Leave the fort? But…_I can't just leave!_" She said, surprising herself at the edge of panic in her voice. Lucan's features scrunched up in a look of disbelief at her strange outburst.

"What is the matter with you? You have to! It's the king's orders, you can't disobey Arthur!" he said, his own voice rising, and Reagan struggled not to blurt out her very dire and very important reasons just to prove a point. She could not leave the protection and the cover the fort offered, she most definitely could not travel north.

Waldenham was in the North Country and she would be damned if she had to march right back through those whitewashed walls and into Rullus' waiting arms, mission or no mission. Before she had a chance to comment on Lucan's strict and obedient logic, he grabbed her arm and began dragging her back toward the front gates.

They raced back into the fort just in time for her to receive a scathing dressing down from a harassed-looking Lancelot for running off when he needed her. Then was told that she was to pack and be ready before dawn, as they would be leaving at first light with a small party of soldiers for parts unknown for an indeterminate amount of time.

They were to set up camp a few days ride north of the wall. Lancelot sent her away with a sidetracked wave of his hand and she obeyed, frustrated that no one could understand her desire not to go on this mission and knowing there was nothing, aside from escaping out on her own (which was out of the question now that she would be missed) that she could do.

With her head spinning and exhaustion quickly settling over her she shuffled back to the servants' quarters, packed her small rucksack detachedly and then fell into bed without much thought as to how to get herself out of this new and strange predicament without raising a whole slew of questions she couldn't answer.

Closing her eyes, Reagan's last and most prominent worry before she fell asleep was how to survive an indefinite period in the woods of the north, sharing very close quarters with Lancelot, without going completely mad.

A/N**: I want everyone to know that I promise not to make you wait that long again. I think some of you will be pleased to know that the next two chapters are finished and sent to the betas. You won't have to wait nearly as long for nine or ten. Nine should be up shortly and ten (another monster of a chapter) should be close to follow. So far I've had nothing but good comments back from the betas on ten so I am anxious to see what you think about it once it's posted. See you all very soon! Happy reading.**


	9. Chapter 9

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story, I only own Reagan. Sometimes I think she gets sick pleasure out of making my life as difficult as she can. **

**See! I said you wouldn't have to wait long! **

**Huge thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! It really means a lot and believe it or not really encourages me to keep writing. You guys are the best!**

**Again Thanks to the beta team! Leigh, Jo and Murt, you guys know what you're doing! **

**This is the shortest chapter in the story so far. Still, 5 pages is nothing to shake your fist at. **

Chapter 9

Very early the next morning, Finn roughly jostled Reagan awake and she followed the boy down to the stables under a grey and overcast sky.

There was a bevy of soldiers and villagers inside the large building getting horses and wagons ready for their departure and Reagan couldn't remember the last time she'd seen so many people in one contained space.

Pulling the voluminous folds of her black cloak around her shoulders and with her small pack in tow, she still felt the lingering effects of sleep heavily in her eyes. Blearily, she wove her way through the throng of black and sliver clad soldiers in the stables looking for Lucan in the crowd.

She wanted to say good-bye to him before she left, as Lancelot did not disclose in his haste last night when they would return. Peering around the broad backs and shoulders of the men in front of her, she was disappointed when she didn't spot his curly blond head amongst them.

Just as she was rounding the second set of stalls, someone grabbed her arm and pulled her back. Used to this kind of treatment, she didn't have to turn around to know Lancelot was right behind her.

"Where have you been, squire?" he demanded. Too tired to deal with another of his foul moods she yanked her arm out of his grasp and continued to march forward.

"I have been looking everywhere for you, are you packed and ready?"

"Yes, my lord." There was still no sign of Lucan and Reagan was beginning to wonder if he was still abed.

"Do you have your sword and dagger?"

"Yes, my lord." Walking back toward the front of the stables her eyes briefly met Ivy's, the girl looking lost in the midst of large crowd of men, and Reagan noticed that she had pushed herself up against one far wall as if she was trying to make herself invisible.

Which was ironic considering she had received interested looks from practically every man in the general vicinity and her bright red hair stood out like a beacon against the rough grey stone of the stable walls.

Ivy clutched at her own pack and had wrapped her arms around a small wooden box of medicinal supplies, which she carried in front of her. Reagan guessed that Ivy had been ordered to accompany them on their trip as the camp's healer.

Arthur, not wanting to spare his best healer, not to mention another of his knights, had ordered Dagonet and Lucan to stay behind in case they were needed.

It looked as though the task fell to Ivy to follow them into their camp and taking one look at Ivy's weary and stony expression, Reagan was also under the impression that the apprentice healer did not like the idea one bit.

"Reagan!"

"What?" she snapped and suddenly the noise in the stables fell several decibels.

Feeling many pairs of eyes on them, Reagan realized that she'd stuck her foot in her mouth yet again and, adding insult to injury, had done so in front of the soldiers under Lancelot's capable and respected command.

She watched in dread as he cocked his head toward her, dark eyes narrowing as he glared at her. Feeling her irritation and anger beginning to get the best of her, Reagan knew she had to nip this early argument in the bud before it got out of hand.

Trying her best to look embarrassed when all she really felt was irritation, she cleared her throat pointedly.

"Apologies, my lord, I pray you'll forgive my outburst." She sensed that he was suspicious of her uncharacteristic and quick apology, but nonetheless, Lancelot nodded, satisfied, and made to grab for her once again.

She dodged his hand nimbly and received another glare in response. Knowing that they'd lost the interest of their audience after her apology, Reagan risked speaking up once more.

"I am perfectly able to follow you, my lord, you do not need to drag me behind you every step of the way," she said through clenched teeth.

"Well if you do not_follow me_, squire, I shall wrap a rope around your ankles and be forced to drag you behind my horse the entire way north." Getting the idea that he was quite serious about the threat, Reagan followed him to the front of the stables where Galahad and Finn were already mounting their horses.

Malachi stood saddled and ready for his master and, next to him; the brown mare with the defiant amber eyes Reagan was familiar with was also saddled and ready.

Taking a look at the horse, she quickly came to the understanding that the mare was meant for her to ride and the sudden and quick apprehension that she had never ridden in her life made her hesitate when Lancelot motioned for her to mount.

Unsure what steps to take next, she walked to the right side of the horse and awkwardly grabbed on to the pommel of the saddle. Reagan watched as Lancelot placed his foot in the stirrup and fluidly lifted his big body on to Malachi's back.

Taking the lead from his example, she placed her foot in the stirrup and tried to lift herself onto the mare's back. Although it was a gallant attempt on her part, it was a well-known fact that she was terrible with horses--they had never gotten along.

Just as she was savoring her novice ability to mount a horse, her foot lost its loose place in the stirrup and she slid right off the opposite side of the mare, landing on the hard stable floor with a very unmanly shriek.

Sometime during her landing her cloak fell over her face, blocking her eyes, and she blinked them open in surprised pain to nothing but blackness. As she lay there prone on the ground, she didn't have to see the expression on Lancelot's face to know his reaction to her clumsy fall from the horse. The disgusted and disappointed tone in his voice was telling enough.

"Get up, boy, you're not only embarrassing yourself, you're embarrassing me!" he hissed, as the sound of raucous laughter filled her ears. Pushing herself off the ground, Reagan swiped at the cloak about her face, righting herself. She got to her feet, hastily adjusting her clothing.

"You can ride, can't you, boy?" Lancelot asked with an unmistakable hint of incredulity in his voice. Thinking it best to answer honestly, Reagan squared her shoulders and waited for the rebuff in which she was sure the truth would receive.

"I was on a horse once. There was a fair in my village when I was little, and my father helped to lift me onto the back of a pony…"

"A pony!" She was interrupted by Galahad's snort of laughter. "Maybe we should get your boy something a little lower to the ground," he said, giving Lancelot a wry and caustic look.

Reagan felt her face flush with embarrassment, though why that should be the case was beyond her. Lancelot should never have assumed that she could ride without asking.

Suddenly feeling a gentle hand on her shoulder, Reagan turned around to see Ivy smiling shyly at her, her green gaze briefly flickering up towards Galahads handsome, laughing face then away again. Looking directly at Lancelot though, her cool gaze did not falter.

"Pray, my lord, do not embarrass the boy further." Ivy said in a firm voice Reagan had only heard her use on Gawain when it concerned Galahad. "I would like to help. I do not relish the thought of riding in one of the wagons. If I may, and with your permission, I would ride with Reagan. It is obvious to any one with eyes that the boy has no experience riding."

She gave Lancelot a charming smile and despite the long puckered scar that ran the length of her left cheek, she was unmistakably beautiful. True to his character, Reagan's commander was not one to refuse a beautiful woman.

Somehow, even though the exchange involved her, Reagan's insides twisted with a bit of jealousy. If she had half of Ivy's exquisite beauty no one would mistake her so easily for a boy.

Catching herself thinking such poisonous thoughts even as Ivy had come to her rescue, Reagan wanted to mentally slap herself.

"You truly are a kind woman, Ivy." The reverent tone in the younger knight's voice was heavy and obvious. Reagan watched Lancelot roll his eyes heavenward at Galahad's sweet-as-sugar compliment.

A compliment that Ivy appeared to completely ignore. Smiling to herself, Reagan climbed on to the back of the saddle with Ivy's help. The mare carried the weight of both women easily, and Ivy took control of the reigns capably.

Finally, the party began to slowly work their way out of the front gates of the fortress. Reagan clung to the saddle and tried to stay upright while looking for any sign of Lucan in the crowd that had gathered to see them off.

As though sensing her thoughts, Lucian's curly blond head appeared just before the front gates. Reagan smiled and waved enthusiastically at him, almost losing her place in the saddle.

She yelled her goodbyes to Lucan before they were out the front gates and the full reality of actually leaving the fort began to sink in. Swallowing back a brief and bleak feeling of insecurity, she decided to make best of the situation. Clearing her throat, Reagan tried to get Ivy to speak to her.

"Thank you for helping me," she said timidly, watching Ivy nod in response as they traveled further away from Hadrian's Wall and unsuccessfully pushing back a sense of panic at the loss of its protection. Reagan had to remind herself that she was still under the protection of two capable knights and a small army of soldiers, but she could not shake the feeling that danger was closer than she might like.

"Relax, Reagan, the horse won't hurt you," came Ivy's quiet reply to her sudden reflexive grip on the back of the saddle. Reagan replied with a nervous giggle, the sound stirring something in her companion that she had not intended.

"It's not the horse I'm worried about." she said, staring intently at Lancelot's cloaked back. It was at that moment that Ivy turned in the saddle to address her. Her clear green eyes assessing something on Reagan's face that she didn't know was there.

Reagan met her gaze evenly, the moment passing between the two women quickly and a sudden understanding blossoming between them. Ivy could be trusted and Reagan was just desperate and exhausted enough to spill her secrets.

Despite the temptation to tell the girl her story, she remained stubbornly silent under Ivy's intense scrutiny. They said nothing and Ivy turned back around to steer the horse back onto the correct path. A long silence passed, as neither one spoke, their mutual understanding too fresh.

"You're not the only one to have secrets, Reagan." Ivy finally said in her strong quiet tone. Unlike Tristan's unnerving unveiling, Reagan didn't feel the slightest bit alarmed that Ivy had so easily unmasked her.

Unsurprised that her disguise was becoming more transparent by the week, Reagan didn't garner the reassurance from the statement that Ivy had so obviously intended.

Instead she continued to stare at Lancelot's proud, broad back as he led the ranks of the men behind them, desolation twisting in her gut at the thought of losing the small amount of his trust she'd slowly earned though their working relationship.

It was her own selfish desire to escape the invisible vice-like clutch Rullus had on her life that made her cling to this farce. Despite her best efforts she could no longer ignore the irrevocable pull she had towards Lancelot.

Once it was revealed that she had betrayed him, and it would eventually have to come out, he would never look at her the same way again, and that bothered her more deeply than she would ever care to admit.

If there was one thing Lancelot valued more over loyalty, it was trust, and every day that they worked together and each time she pretended and lied was one more black mark in her favor, where he was concerned. Sighing with complete resignation to her own unraveling fate, Reagan finally got up the gumption to reply to Ivy.

"Yes, but when your secrets are revealed, I seriously doubt the consequences you face will be quite as dire as mine." Even as she said the words aloud and another long silence from Ivy followed, Reagan felt the oppressing weight of it push down on her. Taking a deep breath she closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the rocking motion of the horse's stride. However much she tried to ignore the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach, she'd known all along that the truth would have to surface and when it did, she prayed that it wouldn't break her.

A/N: **There I go again with character set-up. This really is the calm before the storm so to speak.** **I know this chapter is short, but 10 is another long one and I have to say that it is possibly one of my favorite chapters. **_**Just a little hint**_**: We finally get a peek into Lancelot's thoughts and Reagan does something that could quite possibly let the cat out of the bag once and for all. Until then…I hope everyone has a Happy Valentines Day!**


	10. Chapter 10

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story, I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**Lots of thanks to the beta team! Leigh, Jo and Murt you guys do a great job of editing and making this story that much more enjoyable to read. I really couldn't do it with out you! You've all been witness to my horrible spelling :)**

**I really hope this chapter lives up to all of the hype I gave it in Chapter 9. If not, well, it is my story I guess I'm aloud to be biased**.

**This chapter is dedicated to Cricket05 from one Lancelot lover to another :)**

_Nothing is easier than self-deceit, for what each man wishes, that he also believes to be true._ **Demosthenes**.

Chapter 10

As the day wore on and dawn slowly began to turn into the russet shades of dusk, the party travelled further into the North Country. Lancelot, used to spending long hours in the saddle, quickly settled into the rocking motion of Malachi's stride and fell into an alert but safe rhythm while he and Galahad lead the ranks of the men behind them at a steady pace.

His keen hearing was tuned into the surrounding lands and the people travelling with him. He chose to ignore Galahad's covert glances backwards--as if he thought Ivy didn't notice the pointed looks he gave her—and the sound of the knight's wistful, and in Lancelot's opinion, _pathetic_ sighs, instead listening to the crunch of the horses hooves as they cantered along the dirt packed roads, the grinding rotation of the wagon wheels behind him, and the sounds of the birds nestled in the massive trees along their path.

It was an all-too-familiar melody in his ears, and if he had not been conscious of it, it would have lulled him into a doze. Lancelot listened to each one of these distinct sounds and kept a sharp eye out, all the while under an outward mask of indifference and blithe resignation.

However he may appear the efficient, ever-watchful commander, there was the occasional distraction that took him outside himself, and the hushed conversation of the two people riding behind him was proving impossible to ignore. Ivy's soft yet firm tone floated into his consciousness and then floated out again, as one voice in particular stood out through the din. _Reagan's_.

Cringing inwardly, for even the mere thought of his squires' name sent a wave of misplaced and completely unfounded panic bubbling through him, Lancelot hoped silently for the sake of his sanity, that Reagan's voice would change soon. He wondered why when the boy was pressed into a corner-literal or metaphoric, he purposely lowered his voice as if he were trying to hide the flaw.

What was even more disturbing was the sad fact that if Lancelot closed his eyes and listened intently, he could almost believe that the voice was female, forgetting momentarily that it belonged to a boy of thirteen whose tenor had yet to change

Lancelot shifted in the saddle and slid a sideways glance toward Galahad as if his friend could somehow read the disturbing thoughts that had been so recently swirling about in his mind concerning his squire. Surely, if Galahad had any idea he would condemn him for it as he so rightly deserved. Thinking of Reagan over the past few weeks had taken a dramatically different and very uncomfortable turn in a very short period of time.

Lancelot was not entirely to blame in the situation either. It was as if his squire almost silently encouraged his disgusting thought process. It was all he could do to pointedly ignore the downright alarming and hungry looks Reagan would sometimes bestow upon him, however innocent they might be.

Familiar with being on the receiving end of that look from women, Lancelot had to remedy that situation; it was a completely different thing when one received such looks from a boy and he had to put a stop to it-soon.

Lancelot was, if not anything else, an intelligent man. He liked to think that very few things escaped his notice, and when Reagan came stumbling into his well-ordered yet stagnant life, things went from normal to confusing in a matter of days. Confusion was one thing; it was that pressing, unsettling feeling he had about this squire that he couldn't seem to tack down.

He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something so obviously off about Reagan, that when it was revealed, he would probably want to hit something hard for not noticing it in the first place.

Having spent a majority of his existence around the Roman military, he was not unfamiliar with a soldier's way of life and he'd been exposed to certain facets of that life that he'd rather not experience ever again. One of the things he'd learned was that not all men preferred the company of women.

Some had tastes that could only be satisfied by other men. While he did not consider himself to be a part of this group, it was not a stretch to guess that perhaps when his squire grew into a man, their tastes would not be of the same palate.

As much as the thought was off-putting to Lancelot, he was beginning to become suspicious that the boy had more on his mind than just training when they were together, and he needed to get the situation under control before Reagan made a fool of himself more than he already had.

Thinking of the current situation and the fact that they were now on this mission together for an indefinite period of time, setting the boy down and having a talk with him about the merits of the opposite sex seemed like the best tactic to address the issue. Maybe if he could sway the boy into his line of thinking they could avoid a very awkward situation in the near future.

He smiled to himself as though he'd just solved a very difficult problem with supreme ease. Unfortunately, Lancelot did not get to enjoy his prowess in problem solving as Galahad's voice interrupted his internal musings.

"I think we should set up camp soon. The horses are getting tired and quite frankly I could take a piss." Leave it to his comrade's bladder to dictate his decisions. Taking a look around the party Lancelot had to agree that everyone was starting to show the first signs of travel weariness.

"If I remember correctly, there are is a copse of trees not a mile ahead. We'll set up temporary camp there, and should reach our destination tomorrow where a more permanent camp will keep the men busy for the rest of the evening." He told Galahad to give the command to the soldiers and sent two ahead of them to stake out a plot. He then followed closely behind, leaving it in Galahad's hands to lead the party the rest of the way.

* * *

Reagan watched over Ivy's shoulder as Lancelot and two soldiers rode off ahead of them. Feeling her back muscles pinch in pain, she grimaced at having to sit for so long bouncing up and down on the hard saddle; her legs were sore and it was all she could do to remain upright on the horse and not grab on to Ivy for support. She got the feeling that Ivy would not welcome her touch, innocent though it may be. 

"Looks like we're finally stopping," Reagan said, sighing wearily.

Ivy nodded and pulled on the reins, keeping as close to Galahad's horse as she could with out seeming "too close." They traveled another few hundred feet off the path and into the edge of a forest not far from the road. A chill began to set creep back into the air; though the temperature during the day was warm, the evenings grew quite cold. Reagan shivered and pulled her black cloak tighter about her shoulders, trying as best as she could to see where they were going through the fading sunlight.

Eventually completely surrounded by trees, the party stopped and began to dismount, the soldiers looked for temporary supplies for their short stay in the area from the backs of the wagons.

Ivy brought the mare to a halt and slid down from the horse with ease, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she did so. She reached up and offered to help Reagan down. Still smarting from her fall off the horse earlier that morning, Reagan thought it best that she try to dismount herself, in the event that she accidentally took Ivy down with her.

Waving the apprentice healer away, Reagan managed to slide herself off the saddle belly first. She was unused to riding astride a horse and the muscles inside her legs throbbed in agony. As soon as her feet touched the ground, her sore legs gave way and Reagan collapsed in an undignified heap on the ground beside the mare.

She flushed quick and hot with embarrassment, as a few of the soldiers laughed at her expense. She felt someone roughly grab her arm and pull her upright.

"What am I going to do with you, boy?" She turned to see Lancelot frown, his face in profile as he glared at the men who'd been laughing at her, silencing them.

"I'm not used to riding and my legs hurt," she said, hoping that was excuse enough. It wasn't, of course, and he began pulling her along side him once again in that high-handed manner that she found extremely irritating.

Why was it that every man she knew felt the need to grab on to her and pull her everywhere behind them? She could walk, damn it. Pulling her arm from his firm grasp she walked ahead of him, straight toward Malachi, knowing that he would need to be brushed down and fed soon.

Her belly gurgled at the reminder of food--all she'd had was a bit of cheese that she'd shared with Ivy and a few sips of water while they travelled. Knowing that he was following close behind her she purposely quickened her steps to get further away from him.

"Boy!" he shouted after her. "You need to tend to my horse!"

Sighing in frustration because he had decided to keep up with her, Reagan stomped over to where Lancelot had tethered Malachi to a nearby tree.

"It's always, 'do this boy!' or 'do that boy!' Why can't I just have a moment to myself without him bellowing in my ear?" she mumbled, reaching to undo the stallion's saddle.

"Because it's you're duty, squire, to suffer my bellows!" Lancelot called over to her, with a forced look of disapproval. Doing her best to scowl in reply, Reagan decided that supernatural hearing was not a quality she found appealing. Finally, after she managed to get Malachi settled and fed, she made her way over to where some of the soldiers had set up a small tent for Lancelot sleep in for the night.

The green canvas blended well with the trees and she knew it was hard to spot them from the road, despite the few blazing fires that had been started. He was sitting on the ground removing his cloak and taking stock of his weapons.

Reagan looked around the small camp and tried to come up with a good spot to sleep that was out of the way.

"You're going to be sleeping right outside the tent, if that's what you were wondering." Lancelot said, answering her unspoken question. "I'd let you sleep in the tent with me but there isn't enough room for two." At the words "sleep with me" Reagan's treacherous and torturous mind conjured images she fought desperately to repress, with little success. Turning around to hide the embarrassing red-hot blush on her cheeks, she heard him stand and cough quietly to get her attention again.

"Come, let us get some food, we have another long day of riding ahead of us." Turing back around, he looked visibly relieved that she followed him without argument toward one of the campfires at the edge of the forest. They ate quietly and Reagan was glad that Ivy, Galahad and Finn were there to ease the awkwardness she was positive would have existed without their company.

Although Ivy proved to be a limited supper conversationalist, it was nice that she was separated from Lancelot by a blazing fire and common sense. The show put on by Galahad to attain Ivy's attention was entertaining and proved to be very distracting as Reagan continued to eat her supper. The most amusing part was that Ivy seemed to pretend that the younger knight wasn't even there.

It was a poor ploy on Ivy's part though, as Reagan noticed that she would slip Galahad glances on the sly when he wasn't staring directly at her. Finally Ivy stood and excused herself for the night, making her way gracefully toward a great tree and pulling her cloak hood over her brilliant red hair. She had settled her things against the tree trunk and managed to make a makeshift bed of blankets and bracken. Galahad's grey eyes followed her the entire time.

"You're about as subtle as a herd of stampeding cattle." Lancelot said, his voice tinged with mirth and distain. Galahad turned to look at his comrade, his handsome features scrunching up in what Reagan assumed was confusion. Before Galahad could form his question, Lancelot continued.

"That woman knows you're besotted with her. It might actually do you a bit of good to play a little hard to get." Finn and Reagan choked back their laughter, and they both shared a smile at Galahad's expense. Reagan wondered how many times Lancelot had taken his own advice and played hard to get when a woman was after him.

"Just because I want to make sure she feels welcome here, does not mean that I am…" Galahad paused, leaning toward Lancelot as though he was about revoke a harsh accusation thrown his way, "_Besotted_ " he hissed. Lancelot threw another log on the fire, poking at the embers with a long stick, a knowing grin split his face.

"You would make the village hag feel welcome, the way you dote and gaze longingly upon the healer. Ivy is a beautiful woman to be sure, but I would hate to see you lay your affections upon less exalted ground than you deserve."

Reagan watched the look of confusion fall from Galahad's face and turn so quickly into rage that she never had the chance to warn Lancelot before Galahad punched him soundly. The contact of fist to jaw made a sick cracking sound and Reagan grimaced. Lancelot landed on the forest ground with a thud, seemingly unsurprised by the punch. Galahad stood over Lancelot, his fist raised and at the ready.

Much to Reagan's relief, Lancelot put his hands up in surrender, and with a dark glare the younger knight took off. Finn gave Reagan a look of surprise before shrugging his shoulders and following his commander. Reagan stood up and went to help Lancelot off the ground. He waved her away, grinning and then groaning in pain as he rubbed his sore jaw.

"What are you smiling at, my lord? He just hit you!" Getting to his feet, Lancelot ran his fingers through his black curls, moving his jaw back and forth to assure that it wasn't broken. He adjusted his clothing, bushing dried leaves and dirt from his breeches and cloak. Then Lancelot shot a look in Ivy's direction and noticed she was carefully studying the recent path Galahad had taken deeper into the forest. He smiled again, and then groaned once more.

"Besotted, the pair of them. She's too stubborn and skittish and he's too eager and desperate. It would do them well to be locked in dark room with soft bed and come morning see what happens." For the third time that night Reagan blushed to the roots of her hair, and again fought back illicit and strange images that conjured in her mind.

She was an innocent, yes, but she wasn't an idiot. She knew the mechanics of coupling, she just didn't know the details, and Lancelot's sardonic comment about locking Ivy and Galahad in a room together was a little too much for her to handle. This time she could not hide her flush and to her dismay Lancelot noticed it right away.

"Yes, well, follow me, Reagan, there is something I've been meaning to speak to you about." Wondering what in the world Lancelot would have to discuss with her that had him looking so uncomfortable, she followed him back to his small green tent and sat down across from him as he took his time arranging his cloak and weapons. Finally he cleared his throat and looked at her as if he were settling in to have a tooth pulled by the village blacksmith.

"I think it is time that we discussed chivalry and women." Reagan's eyes grew wide in complete surprise. This particular topic was one she had absolutely no interest in discussing with Lancelot. "It is expected that a boy your age would have a natural curiosity of women. Despite the fact that you haven't displayed any outward fascination with wenches, I feel that it is my duty to help you along in that particular department."

Reagan suppressed a very un-lady-like snort and then remembered that she wasn't supposed to be a lady and let it out with gusto.

"Laugh all you want, boy, but you'll thank me in the end. There are other uses for women besides cooking and rearing children." He ran his long fingers once again through his hair, rubbing the back of his neck and trying his best, she guessed, to hide how uneasy he actually was. Watching him in the fading twilight, Reagan was struck with a sense of longing. She'd often wondered what that hair would feel like between her small fingers. Soft and slick, she would imagine, and it would probably smell like the tall pines of the forest.

"Have you ever kissed a girl?" he asked, using a hand motion that she assumed was meant to encourage an honest answer.

"Oh no, my lord." Reagan answered a little too vehemently, shaking her head. The look of worry that settled over his features was so amusing that Reagan had to cover her mouth to hide her wide grin. Rubbing his neck again he was silent for a moment, trying to come up with a different approach.

"There is one thing you should always remember concerning women, especially if you don't know where to start. Treat a whore like a lady and she'll become one, treat a lady like whore and you'll get the same result. Now when you take a wife it would be best if you don't forget this: always treat her the way you would treat your horse, with care and affection, and stay away from her when she's in a foul mood or you're likely to get yourself kicked."

It was after he imparted this particular pearl of wisdom that Reagan finally gathered what he was trying to say. He thought his squire had no interest in the fairer sex. While he'd hit the mark completely, he couldn't have been more wrong and it was all she could do not to burst out laughing and make him suffer further. Instead she decided the best tactic was to play along and enjoy watching him squirm. It wasn't very often that she had the upper hand in their discussions and Reagan wanted to relish this moment.

" If I understand you my lord, you're telling me that women are like horses?" she asked with heavy scepticism. Lancelot's worried expression didn't change.

"Yes…no…" he sighed, obviously struggling to get the words right. " I just said that as a comparison. Women are not like horses," he finally answered.

"Good, because you know that I really don't care for horses." Reagan offered, pushing him further, "Poor analogies don't quite get the point across." Lancelot sighed again and rolled his eyes, a gesture of frustration that Reagan was quite familiar with.

"Well, I'm just trying to help you here and have a serious discussion. The way you look at men…is the way a man should look at a woman!" he said, his voice rising despite the fact that he had tried to be discreet. Reagan's earlier amusement faded at his words, and a dark sort of bitterness settled over her.

Why was he so damn blind? Was her disguise that convincing? Granted, the two people who claimed to know her true identity were probably the two most observant in her small circle, but was it so hard to grasp that there might be another reason for her "lack of interest in wenches" staring him in the face? She knew then that Lancelot was probably one of the most self-righteous men she had ever met, and her bitterness further pushed her own frustration. Judging by his expression, she sensed the conversation wasn't going in the direction he wanted it to.

"Forgive me, my lord, for what I am about to say," Reagan began, keeping a tight grip on her temper. "But I find there is little to be learned from this conversation. As distressing as my behaviour has been to you, rest assured I meant you no ill will. While you have claimed yourself to be an authority on women, forgive me if I take your advice with a grain of salt," she said through clenched teeth. Standing, she took note of his confused and slightly shocked expression.

Fisting her hands at her sides, she finished, "You, sir, don't even know a woman when you see one." At that, Reagan turned on her heel and walked away from him, leaving behind her a very silent and very confounded Lancelot.

Reagan walked for an hour, willing herself to calm down. Finally, after she felt marginally better, she made her way back into the camp, grabbed the blankets that were meant for her and staked a claim at a nearby tree. Making herself a bed, she lay down and used her pack as a pillow, hoping that sleep would come soon. Her eyes were closed but she heard the crunch of heavy footfalls coming nearer. Knowing who it was without opening her eyes, she prayed silently that Lancelot would leave her be.

"Be ready tomorrow at first light," he said, his voice low. "I'm glad you came back, boy." Reagan knew that was the closest she would ever come to an apology from him. Satisfied, she turned away from him, listening, as he got ready for sleep. Eventually the camp was silent aside from the low murmurs of the night watchmen, and Reagan found that sleep was not as easy to come by as she had hoped.

* * *

They woke very early the next morning and got ready at what seemed like a snails' pace to Reagan. Finally after everything was packed, the party continued to their destination. Reagan resumed her place on the mare with Ivy and neither girl spoke much; Ivy was too distracted by Galahad and Reagan too preoccupied with the fresh and slightly awkward memories of her conversation with Lancelot the night before. 

While she should have been thankful that her disguise was still working, she couldn't help but feel a little disappointed in him. She did not have a lot of time to wallow in her dissatisfaction as a small group of riders crested the hill before them. She narrowed her eyes to try and get a closer look, wondering who they were.

"It's the scouting party. Tristan is leading them," Ivy said, sensing the curious change in her posture. As they came closer, Reagan recognized a few of the soldiers accompanying the knight. Tristan rode toward Galahad and Lancelot and joined the party without stopping. It wasn't soon after that, that they found themselves sheltered in a valley, with high hills and forests surrounded the rough road they traveled. Reagan guessed that that they would be stopping soon as the three knights became more animated with each step. Her instinct being correct, they did eventually stop in a large dense forest just outside of the valley.

The soldiers made quick work of getting the camp together. Three large green canvas tents were erected, one for Tristan, one for Galahad and Finn, and another for Lancelot and Reagan. The day passed quickly; there was much work to be done and Reagan and Finn were put to work fetching water from a near by stream for the horses, helping unload the wagons, and getting their commander's new quarters set up efficiently.

Reagan managed to get everything unpacked and was looking forward to sitting down before supper, but she never got the chance. As soon as it was made apparent that she was without a task she was put to work training with Finn, who was much more versed with a sword than she was and, much to her dismay, Lancelot took this as a sign that she needed to do more strength exercises.

After doing her usual routine, she was bone tired and starving. It did not escape her attention, though, that throughout her strenuous afternoon she had acquired an audience of one. Tristan seemed to take particular delight in her suffering. It also didn't help matters that the temperature rose steadily during the afternoon and she was dripping by the time she was finished, and–as if it couldn't get any worse--some of the men had taken to removing their tunics because of the unnatural heat, Lancelot among them.

She tried desperately not to stare directly at him, as it was almost too much for her. Knowing that her looks made him particularly uncomfortable, Reagan could not help but admire what a spectacular form he had. Feeling her mouth go dry at the sight, Reagan was so distracted by Lancelot's muscular and magnificent chest that she didn't hear someone come up along side her.

"Close your mouth, girl," the scout said under his breath, so quietly only she could hear. "You're beginning to attract flies." Reagan snapped her jaw shut and looked at Tristan, more embarrassed at being caught staring than anything else. She felt her face flush a bright shade of red. Tristan's mouth turned up into what might have been a smile had Reagan been paying attention. As it was, Lancelot remained shirtless as he talked to a few of his men, and the sun hit his skin in a particular way that made all rational thought flee from Reagan's mind. Tristan's dark chuckle brought her out of her strange lull.

"If you keep looking at him like that, Reagan, people are going to become suspicious. Lancelot already knows something is amiss: watch yourself." At that, the dark knight took off in the direction of his horse Skye. Reagan stood there staring at Tristan's retreating back, her mouth once again gaping. To her horror, Lancelot seemed to catch the unusual interaction between his squire and the scout.

He excused himself from the other men and made his way toward her. Smiling, he asked, "Can you write something for me?" She was sure that the comical switch from lust to comprehension that played over her face was plainly apparent. Reagan gulped and nodded as his grin continued to blind her.

"Good, I have another task for you to complete for me. I need to send Arthur some missives. Come." Lancelot led them both back to his tent and lit a candle, directed her to a small desk and handed her parchment and charcoal pencils. He then made his way over to the washbasin she had filled earlier that morning and washed quickly, running water over his chest and arms, and grabbing a clean undershirt and dark green tunic in the process.

"I need you to write a letter to Arthur while I dictate. You can write Latin, can't you?" Reagan felt herself nod in response, forcing herself to blink; she just couldn't seem to get a grip on her sanity or her vocal chords. Latin was the absolute last thing she had on her mind at that particular moment.

"Good," he said, satisfied at her lack of a smart retort. "Arthur, we have arrived ahead of schedule and shall be inspecting the first of the villages tomorrow," he began, and Reagan realized that she was supposed to be writing. Mentally shaking herself, she began to take down, word for word, what he was saying.

War, starvation, murder, rape, all words she was familiar with but had never had to actually write, and never in such constructed, passionate sentences before. The letters went on and on for pages and when he was finally finished Reagan had absolutely no idea what she had written. He approached the desk in two quick strides and she turned the letter in his direction so he could look it over before it was delivered.

Lancelot braced himself with two hands on the table, bending down so that he could get a closer look at the words, and Reagan found herself on eye level with all of that curly black hair. Something inside her snapped and she found she was unable to control her actions. Watching as if someone else was controlling her body, her hand reached up and gently touched one of the glossy curls, feeling the soft hair wrap around her finger.

Lancelot stopped moving and jerked his head up as though he'd been burned. His expression was startled as he looked at her. _Now,_ she thought as they stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, _now he'll know_. Lancelot's dark gaze lingered on her lips for a brief moment and she felt her fingers curl into her palm, wanting nothing more than to fist them into the front of his tunic and pull him toward her.

A quick and bold sense of victory shot through her. _Now he'll see me for a girl and the masquerade will finally be over, now he'll know that I'm not a boy._ Before she could react further, he abruptly pushed himself from the table. Lancelot backed away slowly, his face draining of all color.

Reagan watched wretchedly as his mouth opened and shut as if he were trying to say something and couldn't quite find the right words. Blinking at her one last time, he turned on his heel and left the tent so quickly it was a full minute before Reagan realized he'd abandoned her with the unfinished letter.

Embarrassment and humiliation blossomed in her chest, squeezing at her insides and making them ache. Taking a deep breath and feeling dangerously close to tears, she gathered the pages together and started packing up the writing supplies. Her hands were shaking so badly that she lost her grip on the parchment and they fluttered to the ground in a silent mockery of her scattered pride.

Reagan tried to reorganize the pages, but found that she couldn't concentrate. Instead she gave into the brief and indulgent whim of tears, viciously swiping at her eyes as they blurred her vision. Angry with herself for her lack of self-restraint, angry that Lancelot only saw what he wanted to see, not what was right in front of him.

She had to concede that if this was a time for brutal honesty: Reagan was mostly angry with herself for falling in love with a man who would never love her in return, and when it was all said and done, it was her own fault and her own foolishness for living a lie and letting that man believe it. The truth had to come out, and the sooner the better. Because living like this, Reagan was sure, would kill her in one way or another.

**  
AN: Please don't hate me for leaving it there, I had to do it...things are starting to unravel and as much as Reagan would like to think she's in control well...she's going to be in for quite a shock, and she ends up gaining (of all things) a protector, someone who was probably one of the last people Reagan would have ever suspected would help her. Bet you can't guess who it is-or maybe I really have been that transparent in my plot so far.**

**Huge thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter- you help make writing this story a pleasure. **

**Until Chapter 11 **

**-S.**


	11. Chapter 11

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story, I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**Lots of thanks to the beta team! Leigh, Jo and Murt you guys do a great job of editing! As I always like to say; I can't spell my way out of a paper bag, so the three of you rock!**

**I have no excuses why it's take me so long to finally post this. My life has been a mess, lets just leave it at that. Hopefully you can forgive me for the long wait… alright, I'll shut up now. **

_Everything that deceives may be said to enchant._ **Plato**

Chapter 11

It had been a little over a week since the humiliating scene with Lancelot in their tent, and Reagan had been kept so busy she'd not really had time to think about it, much less dwell on her embarrassment.

They had continued on with the mission, the three knights and the small army of soldiers inspecting the villages that had reported attacks. Sometimes Reagan was required to stay behind; at others, she was ordered to accompany them.

She always shared a horse with Finn--Galahad's squire--and stayed out of Lancelot's way. What she saw on those long and toiling trips made her heart ache, and she felt true fear for the people who had inhabited the places they visited.

She had always heard of the devastation left after Saxon attacks, but now she had witnessed the aftermath with her own eyes and it was scary. Despite all of her gallant attempts to appear manly, Reagan had almost given herself away on her first excursion.

The acrid smell of burning flesh and wood had filled her nostrils as they approached a ravaged village. Finn noticed her obvious distress and looked slightly worried about her green expression.

It took all she had not to leap off the horse and start running in the opposite direction once they actually arrived at the village. Reagan could not believe the carnage and for a moment went completely numb.

Everyone dismounted and she stood there, aghast, turning in shocked circles. It could have been Waldenham--it wasn't, but it could have been. The devastation, this utter carelessness for human life rocked her to her core.

It wasn't until she spotted the burning remains of a church that she had begun to cry. Reagan only realized she was doing it when she felt the wetness on her cheeks and choked on the sob sticking in her throat.

"Stop crying, boy; your tears won't help the dead, and you're only making yourself look worse in front of the men." Lancelot's deep and dispassionate voice cut through her. She turned around, fiercely wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hands as his dark eyes, intense and burning, regarded her, anger clear in his expression.

"Don't make me regret taking you on this mission." Standing there with the sun glinting off of his battle armor, the smoldering village behind him, he was at that moment the image of the cold, ruthless, battle-hardened Knight of legend.

If she had expected compassion, she would have been disappointed. After his harsh and well-deserved reprimand, Lancelot turned away and said nothing more to her. Reagan suspected the knight was suppressing the urge to throttle her for her weakness.

Steeling herself against her emotions, Reagan watched as Lancelot dispatched the men with an efficiency borne of experience. She'd been put to work alongside Tristan, and he had been patient with her as she learned what to do in order to get the village and the dead bodies taken care of.

The scout watched her work and led her along when he felt she was about to a misstep. He seemed quiet and introspective while they worked, and for that Reagan was eternally thankful. She did not think she could stomach conversation at the moment

As she helped to bury one of the bodies, she began to fully comprehend what had happened. Feeling the bile rise in her throat and knowing she could not hold it back any longer, she had mere moments to jot behind the smoldering skeletal remains of a hut before losing her entire stomach contents in one go.

Praying that Lancelot would not notice her missing, she braced her hands on her knees and tried to steady herself. Tears once again blurred her vision and she wondered how she had arrived at such a place. Trying not to think about what had just taken place, she straightened up and turned around abruptly only to come face to chest with Tristan.

Silently he reached inside his tunic and handed her a worn, yet soft piece of cloth, motioning for her to take it. Reagan reached up and accepted his offering with gratitude, wiping at her eyes.

"You should not be here. This is no place for a woman, and why he refuses to see that is a question I cannot answer." His tone was jaded and perplexed and it was exactly as she felt at that moment.

Reagan nodded in agreement, surprised at the empathy Tristan was showing her when he had never given her that particular impression of character. He waved for her to follow and she did, clutching the cloth he'd given her as though it were a lifeline.

The village was beyond repair, and the small group of soldiers and knights all wore the same desolate expression, some hid it better than others, but as Galahad's clear grey gaze swept the place, Reagan thought he looked as visibly haunted as she felt. She felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder as he passed and she realized that he had been watching her as well.

Mounting their horses, there was very little conversation on the way back to the camp. Finn seemed to share her appetite for silence. In the following days, the mood in the camp was more than bleak. Though not all of the villages they inspected were in such a terrible state, the memory of the first destroyed village lingered.

When they did come across a village or town that was whole, there were always still wounded that needed care . What the knights were unable to do, Ivy's talents came into play. Ivy always made sure that if she was not allowed to join the party on their inspections, then one of the squires carried healing herbs and poultices to be dispensed where they were needed.

Reagan and Finn were more than happy to be assigned such an honorable task. This had forced Lancelot to notice his squire's knack for identifying plants and helping with the sick, resulting in Reagan's assignment as Ivy's helper whenever possible. Reagan was to gather herbs and assist the healer in her tent when she felt overwhelmed. It was a good experience for the squire, as she learned how Ivy worked and it brought the two women closer together.

Thankfully, Reagan was never given tasks beyond her limited abilities in the healing tent, but she did know how to tie a bandage and her knowledge of medicinal herbs came in quite handy. Reagan was immensely glad when she could drop the charade and did not have to act like a boy in front of Ivy.

Those dire reflections led her to where she was currently, sitting on the bank of a murky stream, clutching Lancelot's torn tunic and wondering how it had all come to this while Ivy's idle, yet sweet humming filled her ears.

The one thing Reagan wasn't trying to do was lie to herself. She knew Lancelot was avoiding her like the plague, and for all of his charms and suave capability to handle a situation he wasn't being subtle about it.

She supposed mending was a last ditch effort to give her a benign task and yet keep her busy. Out of sight, out of mind, and, most importantly, out of his way. She'd completed every other task Lancelot had managed to give her without complaint, although Reagan was wholly aware that each one of the tasks included work that did not involve him in any way.

They no longer trained together: she was no longer required to write his missives, bring him his food, or help him with his battle armor. The only thing they did together was share a tent. And the only thing done in the tent was sleep.

As always, Reagan would go to sleep first, with Lancelot eventually following later in the evening. As she lay curled in her furs, pretending to sleep, she would sneakily watch him undress, the knight in complete ignorance of his nightly audience.

She did not feel guilty for admiring the way the silvery moonlight fell over his skin and turned his black hair to the color of smoke; she did not feel guilty for laying awake at night listening to his quiet snores and getting up to cover him over when he'd restlessly kick off the furs. He may not need her when he was awake, but he did need her when he was asleep.

She'd never known anyone to be plagued by such bad dreams as he was. Invulnerable awake, his nighttime defenselessness caused ever widening cracks to appear in his façade. He could pull the proverbial wool over everyone else's eyes, but not hers.

He may have spent the last week avoiding her, but at least it had given her time to come to grips with the fact that she had almost kissed her commander, and it seemed that if he had not been so shocked by her forwardness, he would have let her. No one else could have made her feel like such an ass, but if given another chance to relive the moment, Reagan knew would have done exactly the same thing.

Trying to push those pesky thoughts away, she tossed the black tunic aside and crawled to the edge of the stream. She leaned over, peering into the dark surface of the water as a wiggly reflection stared back at her.

_I really do look like a boy_, she thought, trying to smooth the difficult tendrils of hair that stuck out behind her ears. No wonder Lancelot looked so disgusted at her clumsy attempt to kiss him. Who in their right mind would want to kiss a skinny boy-girl who looked like she did?

"Whatever it is you're thinking, you're wrong." Ivy's voice interrupted her slow decent into self-pity, and Reagan pushed herself away from her disenchanting reflection.

"And how would you know what I'm thinking? All _you_ ever think about is back at the camp training with his squire," she retorted before reaching for Lancelot's tunic and her thread once more. Ivy looked up from her mortar and pestle, the herbs she'd been crushing forgotten.

"As if you have any room to speak. You simper and sigh all day and mope about because _he_ is trying to pretend you don't exist. A futile exercise in my opinion; trust me, _he_ knows you exist," she replied loftily, and Reagan smiled at her matter-of-fact tone, watching as Ivy reached for more dried bog moss to crush. The faint light of the sun filtering through the canopy of trees above lit upon Ivy's brilliant red hair.

Once again Reagan had to force down feelings of resentment toward Ivy's looks. No one could be blamed for his or her looks, and Ivy was obviously not a vain person. Despite Regan's gentle prodding and burning curiosity, Ivy stubbornly refused to discuss her past, and as much as Reagan tried to get her to tell the story of her mysterious scar, Ivy refused to cooperate. Reagan respected her enough not to press the matter. In her own time, Reagan hoped that Ivy would trust her enough to open up to her.

"Well _he_ has a funny way of showing it" Reagan grumbled, licking one end of the thread before pushing it through the eye of the needle. This was the last of the tunics she needed to mend. Luckily, sewing was something she was good enough at to where she didn't actually have to concentrate on it.

Reagan tried to satisfy herself with finally finishing the mundane task: how one man managed to rip so many tunics was beyond her. He should invest in ribbons or toggles or something that didn't pop off as easily and helped to prevent tearing. Thinking of the fortune he must pay the seamstresses back home for his mending, Reagan's eyes strayed from her sewing and lit upon a bundle of thick green thread Ivy had in her basket.

As she held the thread aloft, an idea came to mind, something that was sure to get his attention and make sure she never had to mend for Lancelot again. It was a win-win situation all the way around.

"Can I borrow this, Ivy?" she asked, trying to make the request sound innocent enough. "I promise to purchase some more for you when we return to the fort." Ivy reached for one of her empty herb satchels and poured the contents of her mortar into it.

"I've had that green thread for an eternity. Consider it a gift; there is no need to repay me." At those words, Reagan lit up like a candle and Ivy's face took on a look of suspicion.

"Why do I get the feeling you are not planning to sew yourself a new green tunic with it?" she asked, her tone suddenly weary.

"I just may do that, Ivy. Thank you so much for the thread," Reagan found herself replying, returning once more to her mending. She pushed and pulled the black thread through the tear on the shoulder. Her stitches were tight and neat, and she imagined that a wonderful spread of ivy leaves surrounding the back and creeping across the shoulders would look handsome on the fine black fabric.

Wouldn't Lancelot be surprised that she had gone the extra step to help ensure he had the finest mended and embellished tunic in the camp? A devious smile spread across her face and Reagan was completely unaware that Ivy had noticed her expression.

"Whatever it is you're thinking, I know _he_ will not like it," the healer cautioned.

"Good, lets hope that he doesn't." Reagan replied with finality.

* * *

Reagan pulled viciously on the remains of the green thread, feeling a certain amount of satisfaction as the material snapped. She shook out the black tunic and admired her handiwork. Her embroidery skills needed a bit of fine-tuning but the end result was, in her opinion, resplendent.

The ivy vines added just the right amount of flair to an otherwise drab and poorly kept tunic. They crept across the back shoulders and down the front, ending with a crisscross pattern in the middle where a tiny green peacock joined the vines together.

It was perfect, and she hoped her message was loud and clear. Reagan wondered just how long it would take him to notice what she had done, but she folded the tunic carefully and placed it in the pile along with the others in the tent. The next time he requested she mend for him she'd do so and she'd do it with relish, just so long as she didn't run out of ideas and thread.

Wiping her hands on her breeches, she washed for supper and went to fetch Ivy from her tent to join her. Unfortunately, Ivy was preoccupied with a patient who had cut himself rather deeply. She waved Reagan away and told her she'd have to catch a late meal.

Facing the prospect of eating a meal alone wasn't appealing, so she decided to find a nice quiet place to sit and make the best of it. Forgoing the food line, she found a clear soft patch of forest floor and planted herself under a handsome elm. Leaning back against the trunk, she took stock of her position and surveyed the camp.

At that moment Lancelot decided to return from his hunt with Tristan, and she tried not to notice how his black and green hunting attire heightened his already good looks. _Rotten, stupid, handsome noble_, she thought bitterly. Folding her arms across her chest, she tried to concentrate on something anything other than her commander.

The task proved to be difficult. Just as her dire and dark thoughts were getting the better of her, a goblet of hot wine and a bowl of steaming white beans and oats were shoved under her nose. Blinking back her shock at the sudden appearance of food, she looked up into a familiar pair of sharp amber eyes and a fall of tangled, braided dark hair.

The scout had snuck up on her with nary a sound and was presenting her with supper. Odd, to say the least.

Reagan somewhat reluctantly accepted Tristan's offerings and he settled himself beside her on the ground arranging his own food. She watched as he pulled a small loaf of bread from inside his tunic.

The action made Reagan wonder what else he kept in there and exactly how many pockets the man had. Tristan broke the bread in half and tossed her a piece. Still reeling a bit from his sudden appearance, her reflexes were not sharp and the bread smacked her square in the nose before landing with a wet plop in her bowl of beans.

A strange scratchy sound came from her supper companion that sounded suspiciously like laughter, and Reagan tried her best to level him a dark glare. This did not faze Tristan in the least, and he motioned for her to eat as he began shoveling food in his mouth as if he hadn't eaten in days. Reagan decided to join him for the moment as the smell of the food finally roused her appetite.

She finished her bowl in no time and the bread, though soggy, was just as tasty. Tristan had long since finished his food and seemed to content himself with watching the camp, one of his legs bent at the kneeand a sharp looking dagger idly twirling about in his hand.

Reagan tried not to watch how the blade caught the firelight and she tried not to notice how deft he seemed to be when he handled it. Taking a reluctant sip of her wine she turned away.

"What does this man Rullus mean to you?" he asked quietly.

At the sound of Rullus' name, Reagan visibly flinched. Tristan's simple question was practically out of the blue, and it was a loaded one in a trend she was beginning to notice.

He was man of few words, but when he did speak it was with purpose, though his dinner conversation left little to be desired where Reagan was concerned. She took another drink, weighing her words carefully before she spoke them.

"He is the first son of the noble family that runs my village. They own the land and he stands to inherit when the earl dies," she answered, watching as he nodded, eyes distant as he picked at the remains of his bread.

She felt he was gearing up to ask her another loaded question: his expression gave nothing away, but her instinct was correct.

"Why the disguise?" She knew that one was coming though she didn't expect him to be quite so frank about it.

"Because he tried to make me his mistress. I was the one female in the village he could not have, and when he tried to take me by force I bashed his head in with a rock and ran." Tristan turned his head to look at her, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"Good girl." Reagan couldn't help but feel a genuine smile form at the praise. It faded, though, as she felt she needed to tell him the entire reason.

"I tried to hide with the priests I worked for, but they could not harbor me. Rullus, bleeding and angry, publicly declared me a witch and soon Waldenham was rampant with greedy villagers seeking to hunt me down and tie me to a stake for coin."

Again he was silent, as though he was taking in her words from all angles. Reagan stuffed a wad of bread into her mouth, praying he wouldn't continue with this line of questioning. Given the events of the past week she did not think she could handle any more.

"You are no more a witch, than a boy," Tristan finally replied. Reagan felt glad to finally have someone completely on her side. She had been waiting to tell someone her story for weeks, and now that she had, she didn't feel the relief as she has suspected she would. Instead she just felt tired, complete bone-weary exhaustion. She was so sick of running, so sick of trying to keep her secrets secret.

They said no more to each other and she watched curiously as he wrapped the remains of his bread and a few choice pieces of meat from his stew in another cloth and tucked it away in his pocket. Reagan realized that Fionn, his hawk, would a have a treat later.

Reagan and Tristan sat in companionable silence, and she was relieved to feel safe in his presence for the first time in their acquaintance. Her eyes wandered about the camp, finally settling on Lancelot and Galahad talking adamantly and sharing their third flagon of wine that evening.

She could tell that they were discussing the days events and the villages to visit the next few days by the exaggerated hand gestures Galahad made and the scowl that continued crease Lancelot's brow.

Their voices carried across the glen, yet no one seemed to pay them much heed. Even in the heat of conversation, the firelight caressed the sharp angles and hollows of Lancelot's handsome features.

Feeling her breath catch in her throat, Reagan reached for her goblet of wine and forced her eyes in another direction. Just as she took a long pull of wine, Tristan decided to speak.

"You believe yourself to be in love with him, don't you?" She was so surprised by the blunt question she felt herself choke, the wine suddenly becoming thick and getting stuck in her throat. Gathering her wits, she tried her best to give the scout a withering look, which failed completely.

"You could do much better." He replied to her non-answer. She gave a little laugh and took another long drink of wine.

"Better than Lancelot?" she asked incredulously. The look he gave her was so full of heat and underlying meaning that Reagan felt herself blush a brilliant and embarrassing shade of red. Blinking at him, she tried to speak coherently.

"Do you mean…y-you?" Reagan didn't know if she should be flattered or frightened. Catching her look Tristan seemed to come back to himself and gathered his bowl and goblet.

Reagan didn't get a chance to reply to his implications, finding it difficult to form a proper argument on the spot. Sensing her unusual disquiet, he rubbed his nose, pushed a rogue braid out of his eyes and stood.

"I think I liked you better when you were afraid of me." His frankness helped to relieve Reagan from trying to form a rebuff. How exactly did one kindly refuse the advances of a lethal Sarmation scout?

Reagan looked at him before shaking her head at the abrupt and deft turn in conversation, and then she gave Tristan a shaky laugh and a wry smile.

"If it is any comfort to you, sir, I'm still afraid of you." At that, a full-fledged smile spread across his stark features. He nodded and began walking away, but there was still one burning question left unanswered and Reagan called him back.

"How did you know I was a girl?" she quietly asked. Even standing a few feet away from her, he had no trouble hearing her and did not hesitate to answer.

"Did you really think you were alone that night you decided to bathe in the forest?" Giving her an unholy grin that was completely out of character, he turned and walked away, leaving plenty of time for his explanation to sink in.

Refusing to admit to herself that Tristan had witnessed her naked in any form, Reagan shakily drained her goblet, suddenly exhausted. Returning her supper items to the cook, she picked her way through the camp toward the tent.

Once inside she washed as quickly and efficiently as she could without removing her clothes. The night was humid and Regan could not bear the thought of sleeping buried under furs with all of her clothes on. Sitting down roughly on her small bed, she pulled off her boots and her midnight blue tunic, hesitating only slightly before pulling off her breeches.

Sighing in relief, she stretched out slowly, reveling in the feel of being out of her boy's clothes and promptly falling asleep before she could even contemplate what kind of trouble she would be in if Lancelot were to witness her out of them.

* * *

Lancelot stumbled hazily into the tent later on that evening. He bumped into the small desk in the middle of the tent, banging his shin sharply. Frustrated with himself and the fact that he should not have partaken of that fourth flagon of wine with Galahad before turning in for the night, he sat down roughly on his bed.

All of the energy from the day draining out of him, he undressed without care, throwing his clothes about the tent with the knowledge that Reagan would take care of them in the morning like he always did. The boy kept the tent tidy and neat--almost too neat.

It was another strange _thing_ his squire did. He could chalk that up to just another obvious flaw, and Lancelot was beginning to think that his squire was a lost cause. Stripped down to his breeches, he reached for the single candle still lit on the desk and went to extinguish the flame when something strange caught his attention.

The floor of the tent was in unusual disarray. Clothes were strewn about haphazardly and his clothes blended with Reagan's. That was odd; Reagan never slept unless he was fully dressed-yet another strange thing his squire did-but he was open minded enough to accept it.

His eyes followed the trail of clothing to his squire's bed and rested on something that should have seemed strange to him. Looking back on it, Lancelot would always remember that it was his first telltale sign that he'd been right all along about Reagan.

His squire slept like the dead, the black furs pulled up to his chin, making his pale skin look even more pale than usual. He stirred as the faint candlelight hit his face and instinctively turned away from it. Reagan pushed the coverings away from his body, the collar of his too-large shirt pushed down in the process and one pale round shoulder emerged as a result. Lancelot stared, becoming transfixed at the sight.

He blinked, rubbing a disgusted hand over his eyes. He'd not been that long without a woman that the mere sight of his squire's dainty shoulder was becoming appealing. Dainty shoulder? This was insane! He was sick, a sick, disturbed, obviously deprived man.

Blowing out the candle, he moved to lie down. There was nothing for it, Lancelot decided, he needed to make sure that when they returned to the kingdom he have a talk with Arthur and have Reagan dismissed as his squire. Even the mere thought of it gave him a certain amount of temporary relief.

Feeling as if he'd finally come to a conclusion to his problem, he rationalized that all of the apparent issues would be solved. He could go back to his regular routine sans squire, and Reagan could keep working in the stables with Jols. It was a win-win situation.

He closed his eyes and tried to content himself with the thought. It was difficult. The more he tried not to think about Reagan the more his squire occupied his thoughts. This was not the first night he had tried to drink away the memory of that disturbing afternoon of letter writing.

It was also not the first night where wine had no power to drown or suppress the desire he'd felt in those maddening seconds when Reagan's hand had reached up and touched his hair.

Groaning aloud, he toyed with the idea of going back outside and getting more wine. No, that would not help, and the more inebriated he became the less he trusted himself.

He would sleep and he would try to forget about the boy sleeping mere feet away from him and his exposed shoulder and what have you. When this bloody mission was over he was going to find the most beautiful tavern wenches the fort had to offer and remind himself that he did not fancy boys, that he'd never fancied boys and he wasn't going to very well start now.

Thinking of all of the delicious and wicked things he was going to do to said tavern wenches, he drifted off into a restless sleep. Never mind that all of the faces of the women in his mind resembled Reagan in one way or another. Never mind that, it wasn't important.

**A/N: Chapter 12 is finished- Look for it this weekend as I still have to "fix" some things. Hopefully this chapter and the next was worth the loooong wait. **

**Thanks to everyone for reviewing the story so far and sending me kind words of encouragement while I was away, it means alot! **


	12. Chapter 12

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story; I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**Lots of thanks to the beta team! Leigh, Jo and Murt you guys do a great job of editing! I really couldn't do this without you. **

**Ok, here is where I'm supposed to go: THIS IS THE CHAPTER YOU'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR. I'll let you be the judge of that. **

**Many revelations are within…I hope you enjoy! **

**This chapter is dedicated to WintherRose and Hazelelf1183, your comments always make me smile!**

_None but the brave deserves the fair._ **John Dryden**

Chapter 12

The following morning Lancelot awoke early. His eyes blinked blurrily at the green canvas overhead. Weak tendrils of sunlight began to creep their way through the fabric, highlighting sparkling, drifting dust motes in their beams. Sitting up stiffly, he swung his legs over the edge of the cot, pushing away at the furs and blankets.

He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, hastily running a hand trough his tousled hair. _I really must get some of this cut, _he thought as the mass of dark curls fell back into place, one rogue ringlet landing precariously over his left eye.

Shuffling to the washbasin he began to splash cold water on his arms, face, and neck in the hopes that it would help to rouse him further. As it was, his tongue felt slightly fuzzy and his sight was none too clear. Perhaps tonight he'd think twice before reaching for that fourth pitcher of wine.

He knew had to make sure that Galahad and Tristan were awake before the rest of the men started to stir. The stillness of the camp was seemed almost foreign to him and in the thick silence the sound of a contented sigh seemed to echo sharply.

The strange sound made him pause in his dressing and he turned around, casting a suspicious glance at the fur-covered lump that was his sleeping squire. Reagan was still abed: _nothing strange there_, he thought, but what was strange was that the sigh had been distinctly feminine in nature.

The obviously misplaced sound made the hair on the back of his neck prickle and stand on end. Again, that unsettling feeling he'd been holding at bay rose swiftly within him. Lancelot did not ignore his instinct on this occasion, however, and began to walk quietly toward Reagan's bed, which was situated in the opposite corner of the tent.

He hesitated only when he heard another sigh and a rustle of blankets as one milky white leg slid out from beneath the furs, curving beguilingly back against his squire's body and wrapping seductively around the black fabric.

It was at that moment, as he stared disbelievingly at that long, pale, shapely leg and as his eyes followed the dips and hollows to the taut curve of his squire's behind, that the torturous seed of doubt that had planted itself in the back of his mind took full root.

Staring at Reagan's partially uncovered and sleeping body, all of his suspicions, every single little twinge of uncertainty, clicked into place.

Lancelot staggered backward, the backs of his knees hitting the edge of his cot. He caught himself and sat down hard, unable to completely process what he was seeing right in front of him. Reagan turned onto her side and curved her left leg even more, pushing the blankets and furs further away from her body and unknowingly revealing a backside that was anything but boyish.

Lancelot scrubbed a hand over his eyes again, feeling as if he might still dreaming, seeing imagining things that should not be there. When he opened his eyes again and the gorgeous leg and curvy little behind didn't disappear or turn into something even more unbelievable, the truth of the situation hit him with such force it was like a slap in the face.

His squire was not a he, but a _she_.

That little tiny bit of doubt that he'd harbored when they first met had not been unfounded. Indeed, he had been right to suspect something was off about Reagan. His squire was not all he or rather _she _seemed.

He just had no idea. The longer he stared, the easier it seemed to believe. It all made sense, all of it. Her complete lack of knowledge where battle training was concerned, her inability to build good solid muscle in weeks of training, and--as he thought about it--even the sound of her voice: it was lilting and distinctive and it had effected him more profoundly than he had ever cared to admit.

She managed to get under his skin and make him think and feel things he'd never before felt in his life. Disgusted with himself and disgusted with the way he'd been feeling when she'd obviously been manipulating him from the beginning, he pushed himself to his feet and began to angrily pace the length of the tent.

To think he'd been feeling sick and ashamed at his growing attraction to a boy, when all along that boy who'd stared up at him with big blue eyes full of lust and adoration had been, in fact, a girl--a girl who had lied to him over and over again.

How could she be trusted? Who was she? How had she managed to fool so many for so long? He stopped pacing abruptly as one memory surfaced bright and acrid. The look on her face last night as she smiled beguilingly at Tristan while they shared a meal together; the scout had approached her, and on numerous occasions Lancelot had noticed the distinct way Tristan had watched her.

At this, a bitter and dark emotion Lancelot could not name quickly overrode his anger. With one last look at Reagan he made up his mind then and there to get to the bottom of whatever it was that she was hiding.

Barely suppressing the urge walk over to her, throttle her to wakefulness, and demand answers, he came up with a much more effective and clever tactic instead. Exiting the tent, he tried to control his thunderous expression with only one thought on his mind. Lancelot was going to have a nice long chat with Tristan.

* * *

It was late into the evening when Lancelot decided to take to the bottle. The day's visit to another burned and destroyed village only added to his already desolate and dark outlook. Bringing the goblet to his lips once more, he drained it in one long swallow; reaching for the pitcher, he poured himself another-- was this his sixth or seventh? He couldn't remember. A clear peal of girlish laughter floated toward him across the glen.

His eyes followed the sound. Reagan and Ivy sat together under a great oak, sharing food and taking animatedly to each other. Lancelot took another large swallow of wine as he stared at Reagan. Even the way she moved her hands as she spoke was distinctly female.

For the hundredth time that day he silently berated himself for not seeing it sooner. That spirited boy he'd been trying in vain to make into a man was in fact a woman. It was no wonder his conversations on the merits of the opposite sex had fallen on deaf ears; he'd been preaching to the choir.

The irony was not lost on him. No, instead he reveled in his present situation, maddening though it was. Tristan sat across from him, reaching behind him to close the tent flap and in one swift movement cutting off Lancelot's direct view of the camp.

"I take it that a game of dice is really not what I was invited for, is it?" Tristan asked, grabbing his wine goblet and leveling a glare at Lancelot. A bitter smile twisted Lancelot's lips and he nodded an affirmative.

Leave it to Tristan's uncanny knack to see deeper into every situation. Lancelot should have confronted him directly but he did not want to alert others to the situation. Lancelot finished his drink and filled his goblet once more, Tristan doing the same and pushing the goblet toward his friend to be refilled.

"How long have you known about Reagan?" Lancelot asked. It was best to be blunt about the problem and get it out of the way.

"Always. She looks like a little girl dressed up in her brother's clothes." Tristan took a long drink. "How long have_ you_ known?"

Lancelot shrugged, rolling the dice in his palm idly before letting them fall on the table. "A handful of hours, maybe," he answered, thinking it best to be as truthful as possible considering who he was talking to. "What do you know of her story, that's true?"

The scout adjusted his tunic, reaching for the discarded die before he continued with their game; the verbal sparring match was just getting underway. If there was anyone Lancelot knew that would not mince words with him, it would be Tristan.

"Rullus of Waldenham, do you know him?" Lancelot's fist closed tighter around the discarded die, his dark mood becoming downright foul. Nodding, he decided it was best to let Tristan tell him all of it. His friend sighed, drinking his goblet dry and reaching for the flagon once more. If this continued, they'd both be drunk before their first game was over.

"Reagan's father sold her to Rullus as his mistress. When he tried to take her she struck him down and escaped. The two priests she worked for at the time choose to disguise her as a boy, slipping out of the village and arriving at the fort but not before Rullus had her publicly declared a witch and placed a hefty bounty on her head."

Tristan finished and reached for the dice, eager to continue the game as he was ahead by two points, a rare feat in this game where Lancelot was usually the victor. Lancelot was so distracted, though, that the scout's lead wasn't a surprise. If what Tristan was telling him was true, then all that had come to pass as of late had been pure folly.

Reagan had not positioned herself intentionally to become his squire; she'd stumbled into more than one situation she couldn't get out of without ultimately suffering disastrous consequences. Lancelot would be dammed if he played any part in placing her back-indirectly or not--into Rullus's path.

He'd known the man, a spoilt first son of a rich Roman who'd sweet-talked Arthur into letting him keep his lands, swearing fealty and protection to those who lived in the village. Arthur (despite Lancelot's misgivings) trusted the older Roman, but Arthur knew his son Rullus was greedy and lazy and stood to inherit the land when the older Roman died.

Lancelot had no use for the son; he was a piece of human slime as far as he was concerned. If anything, he would do everything in his power to protect Reagan from the likes of Rullus.

"So she came to the fort to hide? That's either incredibly stupid, or incredibly brave," Lancelot scowled. "I can't decide."

"Brave and stupid," Tristan supplied.

"Why Reagan?" Lancelot wondered aloud. "Why not another maid in the village?" He looked at his friend, and the smirk the scout wore was telling enough. "Out with it!" the knight demanded, that dark and bitter emotion he'd fought back earlier in the morning surfacing again.

"Relax, I've not touched her, although she does have a beautiful body hidden beneath those bulky boys' clothes." Thinking of that long leg and the curvy little behind that went with it, Lancelot knew the assessment was correct.

He leveled a black glare at Tristan, who didn't even flinch; in fact he seemed to enjoy the turmoil he was putting his friend through. "Why don't you just ask me if I have a claim on her, because that's what you're really wondering, isn't it?"

"Do you?" Lancelot barked, startled at the venehemence in his own voice, surprised at how much he wanted Tristan to deny it.

"Now wouldn't that put a kink in your seduction plans? You've been panting after her like a wounded dog for weeks, even when you thought she was a boy. You never could help yourself, could you?"

Lancelot could feel his anger bubbling just under the surface. He couldn't deny it; he'd known all along that he was attracted to her, he'd just never acted on it. Now Tristan sat across from him boldly exposing his folly. A brittle smile broke across his friend's face.

"She loves you, you fool, or at least she believes herself to be in love with you. When I tried to persuade her otherwise she laughed, thinking it was a joke."

Lancelot choked on his wine, coughing. "She laughed at the idea?" He asked incredulously.

"She's afraid of me, can't say as I blame her. I did threaten her with my sword when we met." Tristan drank his goblet dry, setting it down roughly on the table. Lancelot rubbed a hand over his eyes, reeling from all of the information he was having trouble processing in his wine-induced haze.

"By the gods, Tristan, I wish you had told me sooner. I almost kissed her the other day, I was sick for hours afterwards." Tristan just gave a dark chuckle, and Lancelot had to ask: "Who else knows?"

"Ivy knows. Galahad suspects but is intelligent enough not to bring it to your attention; the gods know we are sorely lacking good entertainment on this trip. If he'd told you it would have taken all the fun away from the rest of us. "

Hearing his answer, Lancelot wanted to throw something-- preferably at Tristan. It was just like his fellow knights to keep it from him. Everyone could see that his squire was a girl except the proverbial ladies' man who apparently didn't recognize a woman when he saw one! He'd been so blinded by his own growing attraction to her that he'd ignored the very obvious signs from the beginning.

"You have worked her harder than anyone else in the camp. Are you going to tell her?" Tristan asked, squinting with one eye into the empty wine pitcher. Lancelot shook his head.

"I think through everything I was trying to change her shape. She's flitted and twittered about, kicking those legs and wearing tight breeches so often in front of me that it was enough to drive me insane for weeks. No, I will not tell her now that I finally have the upper hand. I'm going to bide my time, let her suffer as I have, and when the time is right, I will act."

Thinking of it now, he wondered how he should go about doing it. He'd fantasized about it often enough throughout the day, but now that he actually knew that there was no one else standing in his way, he didn't know how to proceed, which was not like him at all.

When he saw something he wanted he went for it. There did remain the problem that not everyone knew that Reagan was female. How did one eventually seduce a girl who was posing as a boy and you didn't want to let on that you knew she was in fact a girl and not a boy?

Lancelot's current thought process was beginning to make his head hurt.

However it was to be done, Lancelot knew that it was only a matter of time before he got to know the real Reagan. It also did him a great favor that she appeared to be completely infatuated with him, he thought, smiling to himself as he scratched his beard distractedly.

The sharp sting of a pair of bone die hitting him squarely on the forehead brought him out of his wicked reverie. Shooting Tristan a black glare as the scout gave him a mocking grin, Lancelot rubbed his sore forehead, knowing he was well deserving of it.

As it stood, thoughts of his puzzling squire were pushed aside. Tomorrow would invariably be a difficult day. The next stop on their list was a village that was extremely close to a well-known Saxon camp. It would not do either Tristan or himself any favors to be feeling the effects of the previous night if they were facing a possible standoff with unpredictable rogue Saxons.

Tristan decided it was best to discuss tactics that would benefit them if they did indeed find themselves fighting. Lancelot agreed to devote the rest of the night to the mission, and when everything was settled and Galahad briefed on what they had planned, Lancelot extinguished the candles and readied himself for bed. Reagan followed soon after, and he contented himself with the sounds of her sighs and a sense of delicious anticipation settled over him.

* * *

That morning had passed like every other morning in the camp thus far, and Ivy was certain that her day ahead would be just as calm as any of her past days had been. The activities in the healing tent were no different today than they were any other day.

Men came and went with particular ailments that were easily remedied, but by the afternoon, Ivy was exhausted. Her supply of bandages was running short and stock was low for a few of her more precious herbs. She stood and rubbed her lower back, trying her best to ease the pinching pain of having to constantly kneel or bend over to examine her patients.

She caught a clumsy movement out the corner of her eye and realized Reagan was clumsily trying to put something away. The bin she had was obviously too heavy for the girl to carry and Ivy quickly moved to help her.

Together they managed to get it put away with very little trouble, and not for the first time Ivy was immensely grateful for Reagan's floundering yet enthusiastic help. Despite, or rather because of, Reagan's well-meaning and sometimes stubborn nature, she would have been overwhelmed without her. Ivy knew Lancelot wouldn't refuse her request for Reagan's assistance.

Lancelot was predictable where pretty women were concerned, and the apprentice healer was certainly no exception to this rule. Ever the charming, suave knight, Lancelot almost seemed uncharitably relieved to give his squire the task, and the next day Reagan began helping the healer after her morning training routine with Finn. Watching as Reagan dusted off her hands and smiled brightly at Ivy, before moving on to refill one of the washbasins; Ivy knew why Lancelot was so eager to be rid of her.

The fierce, brave, and not to mention noble first knight was afraid of his tiny, clumsy, endearing squire. Well, not so much afraid of Reagan, Ivy mused, but rather she guessed afraid of what he might find himself wanting to do to his squire that had him so eager to get Reagan out of his presence. The healing tent was just the thing he needed.

It was a perplexing and very amusing spectacle to witness the two when they were together, and Ivy wondered more than once how such an intelligent man could not see the vibrant woman hidden beneath the boys' clothes.

It was as if Lancelot could not see the forest for the trees, and when Reagan was near him he treated her as if she had the plague and he could not be bothered with her. Ivy knew the girl meant well, and to see her try to hide her growing frustration at the way her commander was treating her was making it more difficult for Ivy to keep her silence where Reagan's secret was concerned.

She did not want to see Reagan get hurt, and Lancelot was making her situation impossible to bear; it was one thing to scorn someone after they betrayed you, it was another to avoid and shame a person because you didn't trust yourself. Ivy did not relish Reagan's situation one bit.

If any good had come of Reagan's precarious predicament, it was that she had made loyal allies in the party. Tristan and Ivy made sure that no one else knew that Reagan was a girl, let alone a girl with a heavy bounty on her head and a vile master who wanted her back at any cost. Ivy was only too familiar with men who had power and how malicious they could be when they didn't get something they wanted.

At the thought, her scar began to itch; Ivy knew the pain wasn't real as it had long since healed over, but she could not stop herself from rubbing it softly with the back of her hand. Dagonet said she'd been lucky: she could have lost her eye, or worse, acquired an infection that could have lead to death.

At the time, Ivy had wished the later had happened; then perhaps she wouldn't have been plagued by memories of that night or of what she had invariably lost at the hands of a powerful and viscous man who claimed to love her.

Pushing herself away from her table, she walked to her supply box and reached for her mortar and pestle, grabbing a few satchels of herbs and asking Reagan if she wouldn't mind going with her on a hunt for more herbs later. As she always did, Reagan brightened at the mention of plants. The girl was good with them, and had proved herself more than once with her ability to identify both poisonous and beneficial herbs and plants.

Ivy had a hard time identifying anything more than bog moss and mint when she was out on her own. When they got back to the fort, she would talk to Dagonet again, and see if she couldn't somehow steer Reagan back to the healing rooms. They needed someone with her skills and nurturing hand. God only knew what Dagonet was doing to their sad little garden with the women who tended it away.

Ivy shook her head as she thought of the big knight, a small smile on her face. Sweet, kind, gentle Dagonet, who would give you the tunic off his back if you asked for it. If he had not found her that day in the forest so long ago, Ivy was certain she would have died.

At the time she thought he was an angel, his kind eyes and worried expression the only real things she remembered. It wasn't until days later when she awoke in the healing rooms at Camelot did she realize that Dagonet had stumbled upon her broken body during a hunt with Galahad and Gawain.

He had kindly mended and tended to her until she was well enough to stand. Arthur and Lancelot had at first tried to get her to tell them what had happened, but she could not remember, her memory containing only flashes of her previous life in the early days after they had found her. She had stared blankly at Dagonet when he gently reached for her hand and told her she'd lost her baby.

Ivy had felt nothing when he'd uttered those sad words. Sometimes when she thought about it she still felt numb. The pressure of the pestle as it crushed the herbs began to make her hand ache and she realized she'd been gripping it too hard. Releasing the tool, she shook the ache out of her hand.

She'd been lucky, Dag would say, she was young, beautiful, she could have other babies. Ivy wasn't so sure she wanted babies, not if she felt nothing at the realization of losing one. As time passed, and things started to come back to her, she'd been given a job in the healing rooms with Dagonet.

He had trained her well; happy to find that she'd been a somewhat educated woman. She had happily done any task he'd assigned her and found that she enjoyed the work and the new life her giant knight had provided for her. Arthur had placed her under his protection and no one came looking for her. Weeks turned into months, which turned into years, and the kingdom grew and prospered.

Ivy remembered less and less from her past and she suppressed the memories that came to her only in dreams. She had a new life now and she would not have it spoiled by bad memories.

Ivy was settling into her new life quite nicely, when one day she realized someone had left her a gift. A new mortar and pestle had been left outside her quarters: it was hand crafted and had her name carved on the bottom. Wondering where Dagonet had found the time to make her such a wonderful gift, she'd burst into the healing rooms, clutching it to her chest and smiling brightly while thanking him over and over again.

When he denied ever giving her such a gift, Ivy was even more puzzled by its appearance. She asked around to see who might have left her such a splendid present. Arthur had no idea; Lancelot smiled charmingly and winked at her before saying he was sadly not the one responsible for it. When she had exhausted all of her possible benefactors, Ivy accepted that woodland fairies must have left it for her, until the following week when she discovered a bouquet of freshly picked wildflowers on her doorstep.

Again, Ivy was perplexed. Week after week on the same day, a new gift was left for her. A new red cloak with handsome wooden toggles, a fresh pair of kid slippers made from butter-soft leather, sweetmeats, bread, and on and on it went. She did not know what to do with all of the fine things and it began to bother her more and more that she had no one to thank, no one to repay for the kindness.

Until the day of the summer solstice, her gifts had continued to arrive, and each and every time she was surprised at how well the person knew her. This was Ivy's favorite time of year; the solstice was a time for celebration, the festival always something she looked forward to. She had just finished getting ready and was about to head down to join Dagonet and Lucan for the festivities when someone knocked on her door.

Thinking they had decided to meet her she opened the door while still trying to tie the red ribbon through her hair. Her hands stopped and seemed to tangle themselves in her hair. It was not Dagonet or Lucan at her door but Galahad.

The young knight was standing on her threshold, looking impossibly handsome in a forest-green tunic embroidered with silver stars and a fresh bouquet of wildflowers identical to the ones that had been left for her weeks ago. He smiled at her, hopeful yet bashful, and cleared his throat.

It was then Ivy realized she finally knew the identity of her generous admirer. He had never said so much as three words to her and here Galahad was at her door, giving her flowers.

Ivy at first didn't know how to react. She clumsily accepted his offering and fought the urge to push him out of her quarters and slam the door in his face. It was completely irrational, she knew, but she still wanted to.

Galahad was the absolute last person she would have expected to give her gifts. She didn't even think he knew her name. She'd heard tales of him throughout the kingdom: he was the youngest of the knights, and he had a quick temper and a fierce loyalty to his king.

He was always respectful of his comrades and he was considered a gentleman amongst the tavern wenches and ladies of the fort. Ivy had been silently courted by the gentleman knight for weeks and she had had absolutely no idea. She had later found out that he had asked Dagonet's permission to court her weeks prior to the first gift. The thought of all of the beautiful gifts he had left her left the taste of bitter ash in Ivy's mouth.

She never asked for this. She didn't want his attentions or any one else's, for that matter. Men only saw her for her beauty, and when they tired of her she would be back in the same situation she was before. She would rather die then be at the mercy of another man again.

The memory of the burn of a sharp blade slicing through her flesh only confirmed it for her. It was then she realized Galahad the gentleman knight did not take rejection well.

Ivy had tried to give him back the gifts but he refused. She tried to explain to him why she could not accept all of the beautiful things he had given her and he would not hear it. It was then Ivy realized Galahad was stubborn and persistent.

If she would not see him, he would see her. He used any and all excuses--some real and some imagined--to have her tend to him in the healing rooms. The gifts had stopped but his physical presence remained. He became her pest, and he took all kinds of flack from his comrades for it.

Ivy grew more and more irritated with him, but she had to admit that she never once felt like she was in any danger when he was around. In fact, loath as she was to admit it, she felt safer when he was around her, most of the time.

It wasn't until one the day that Gawain had pulled her aside and told her a story that Ivy began to see things a bit differently. He explained to her that when Galahad had been recruited by the Romans at an early age he was often homesick. As a young squire he had tried to befriend a wild and mangy looking kitten that hung around the fort.

He would bring it scraps to eat and tried to get the kitten to take food from his hand. The kitten was skittish and didn't trust humans. When Galahad came down with a fever and was sick for days, he would escape from the healing rooms to try and feed the cat, afraid that it would starve without him. Galahad was persistent and patient and the boy knew that it was only a matter of time before the kitten accepted his offerings.

Eventually, the cat became desperate enough and hungry enough that it finally approached Galahad and ate what he offered. Galahad made a conquest of the tiny, wild kitten and decided to keep it as his own. He named it Daisy, and most days the cat could be found curled up in a fluffy, contented ball dozing in a beam of sunlight on Galahad's bed.

Gawain added that although Galahad loved Daisy, he was not particularly fond of most cats. Somehow Ivy knew that Gawain was trying to apply this story to her situation, and she did not resist pointing out that however lovely a story, Ivy was a woman and not a cat. Galahad could try to woo her with pretty things for an eternity but she would not accept him.

How could she, she reasoned? Ivy had more than just skin-deep scars and Galahad deserved better than a woman who'd been left for dead. Gawain did not see that and became angry with her for continuing to hurt his friend. Gawain may have not understood her, but Ivy knew it was right to keep refusing Galahad, despite the fact that she had grown rather fond of him and his sweet crooked smile in the last few weeks.

More than once he had stepped in where she was concerned and helped her fend off a particularly drunken or amorous soldier. Men in the camp quickly learned not to mess with the healer or suffer Galahad's wrath. He had even punched Lancelot after a bit of baiting where she was concerned. Reagan had told her she'd never seen Galahad look so angry, that Lancelot was just having a bit of fun at his expense. Apparently Galahad did not see it that way.

Ivy sat down heavily on her stool, suddenly exhausted beyond measure. The men were away once more, and Reagan had been ordered to stay behind by a rather fierce and grouchy Lancelot. The village they were inspecting was extremely close to a well-known Saxon camp and the men had been on edge all morning. Reagan looked up from her bandage preparations, the torn cloth sat forgotten in her lap, when the sound of a galloping horse broke the relative stillness of the camp.

"They're back already?" she asked, looking puzzled. Reagan's short dark hair was sticking up in all directions today and her ethereal features stood out against her pale skin, making the girl squire look more like a mischievous fairy than a human. Ivy smiled and nodded, feeling her eyelids begin to droop, but her unusual afternoon languor was irrupted by the shout of her name.

Snapping to attention, she got to her feet and rushed outside. The sight that met her was one that she would never forget, and she couldn't tell if the piercing scream she heard came from her own or Reagan's lips. Tristan was covered in blood, and draped over his horse, face down and unconscious, was Galahad. Suddenly it all seemed very clear: the blood on Tristan was not his own and Ivy was in very real danger of losing her persistent, if not entirely unwelcome suitor.

**AN: I know Lancelot seems like a complete cad in this chapter, but there is a reason for it- trust me. **

**I had the idea that this chapter would be better split up into two different parts. Then I decided that Ivy and Lancelot have their own voices and they should share them somehow. I hope Reagan's POV wasn't missed, we'll see much more from her in the future. As for Tristan and Chapter 11- let's just say that he is a pretty awesome character in his own right and I'm working on a story all of his own- in the mean time, if you'd like a fantastic Tristan/OC check out Homeric's "Faithless" if you haven't already- It's a great read.**

**As a warning: After this chapter, this story will no longer be rated "T". If anyone has a problem with reading "M" rated Fanfiction let me know, I'll have PG-13 edited versions of the chapters saved from here on out. **

**Until Chapter 13!**

**S**


	13. Chapter 13

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story; I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**Lots of thanks to the beta team! Leigh, Jo and Murt you guys do a great job of editing!**

**This chapter is dedicated to Sian, I hope you enjoy! :)**

"W_ho is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon…"_ **Song of Solomon**

Chapter 13

It was as if Reagan had stepped out of the tent and into a vivid nightmare. For a split and horrendous second she thought the body draped bloody and lifeless across Skye's back was Lancelot. Blinking back her shock she realized that it wasn't her commandeer who Tristan had brought back in a frenzied rush, but Galahad.

"No!" Ivy cried as she ran to help Tristan lift Galahad's body into the healing tent. Reagan rushed to her side once they had him securely on one of the cots, her gaze roved over Tristan, taking stock and making sure he wasn't hurt as well. None of the blood belonged to him and she breathed a sigh of relief. Tristan was perceptive enough to catch the question in her eyes imploring him to explain what had happened.

"It was sudden and brutal. We managed to fend them off in the end but they caught him unawares in the first wave," Tristan said, his tone flat and expressionless. Ivy waved Reagan forward to help lift off Galahad's armor as best as they could without hurting him further.

The axe wound to his shoulder had sliced through his chain mail like butter. Reagan peeled away the ripped shoulder of his tunic to reveal bits of metal that were stuck to the bloody wound and she could see pieces of bone peeking through the torn flesh.

Never had she witnessed such an injury; never had she seen so much blood. Galahad's breathing was shallow as Ivy barked orders in her sure, firm tone to Tristan and Reagan.

Tristan had to help cut away the rest of Galahad's tunic and held him down when he began to stir from the pain. Reagan helped Ivy as best as she knew how and washed Galahad's wound clean while Ivy secured his dislocated shoulder with her help and staunched the bleeding.

"We need someone else to hold him down while I cauterize the wound. Reagan isn't strong enough and he will try to fight it," Ivy said looking desperately at Tristan. He nodded and moved quickly.

Lancelot returned with him, still dressed in his armor, covered in blood as well, but he was alive and unharmed and Reagan's eyes devoured him. She wanted to rush to him and make sure with her own two hands that he was indeed standing there alive; the urge was so strong she had to physically force herself to remain where she was.

Lancelot returned her look, his dark eyes almost black, his mouth set in a firm grim line. Looking away from her, he turned to the healer.

"We are prepared; tell us what needs to be done." Ivy motioned them forward and she tilted Galahad's head back while Reagan poured a noxious brew down his throat to dull his pain.

"Tristan, hold down his legs. Lancelot, hand me my tool from the brazier." Reagan watched as he reached for the red-hot piece of iron, passing the cloth-covered end into Ivy's capable hands. Lancelot went to Reagan's side of the tent and held Galahad's torso down.

"Reagan, you know what to do, if I...can't." Ivy said, her green eyes pleading with her. The man that Ivy cared about was hurt and Reagan knew if she fell apart, she would try her absolute best to step in and help the healer where ever possible, however much she hoped it wouldn't come to that.

The treatment was quick and excruciating, and never in her life had Reagan heard a man scream as Galahad did. Ivy had been right to have the other two men hold him down as he twisted in blind agony and fought against the pain.

Ivy's pale face turned even whiter as she watched Galahad before he passed out completely. Shaking, she hastily stepped away from his bedside and Reagan watched wretchedly as the girl's eyes filled with tears. Ivy returned the iron bar to the fire and looked at her. The two knights stepped away, waiting for further instructions.

"You will have to stitch the wound Reagan. I…I cannot." Ivy said, staring at her with fearful green eyes. Reagan's stomach twisted in a heavy and painful knot at the request. She'd only ever stitched cloth, never a man's skin and she didn't think she was wholly capable. Opening her mouth to refuse she found herself staring at Ivy's normally confident and graceful hands now trembling uncontrollably.

It was then that Reagan knew this was what Ivy had truly asked of her before they had started. If she could not finish, Reagan would have to step in. Nodding an affirmative, she rinsed her hands while Ivy instructed her on the proper way to stitch the deep shoulder wound. With Ivy's guidance, Reagan took the thin needle and thread, knelt at the fallen knight's side and began to stitch the wound.

When it was done, there was nothing but mumbled assurances from Ivy that she had done her part and she had done it well. Reagan rinsed her hands in the washbasin, watching in twisted fascination as the water turned a muddy pink from the blood. She reached for a drying cloth and realized her hands were shaking so badly she couldn't get a firm grip on it.

Tristan stepped in and helped her, handing her the cloth and wrapping it around her trembling fingers. Reagan looked over to Galahad, watching as Ivy wrapped his shoulder tenderly and asked Lancelot if there were more wounded men that needed to be cared for.

Suddenly it felt as if Reagan couldn't get enough air into her lungs. There was pressure and pain in her chest and she felt panicked at the thought. _More?_

Lancelot answered that there were. A few had fallen, but Galahad's wound was the most grievous among them.

Ivy straightened, seeming to come back to herself, and told them to bring in the men that needed to be cared for. There were only three. Reagan chastised herself for thinking that. Only three…as if that were not three too many.

The first had a slice on his forearm; it was a nasty thing that needed cleaning. The second had an arrow wound to the thigh; he seemed to be in good spirits despite his pain. The third had a dislocated shoulder and a broken ankle that hung from an impossible angle Reagan couldn't quite fathom.

Gathering her strength, she forged ahead and assisted Ivy wherever possible. It was quite an educational experience on one level. She learned how to reset shoulders and the proper way to bandage a forearm wound.

Ivy displayed none of her earlier anxiety at tending to these men and after they had cleaned cauterized and bandaged the soldier with the thigh wound Reagan was feeling rather proud of herself. She'd not retched, fainted, or run away screaming. It was a little thing, her self-assurance, but it was well earned.

Checking one last time with Ivy before she departed, Reagan looked over Galahad. He seemed to be sleeping now, though there was still the danger of infection that lay ahead which did not do anything ease her anxiety over his wound. Giving Ivy a silent glance that assured the healer that she would return, Reagan purposefully left the healing tent.

She went to Tristan first. His tent was sparse, with a single cot sat pressed against one far wall. Fionn's perch was in the center and it sat empty. She wondered idly if the majestic bird circled the camp in hunt. Weapons were spread about the floor, each sorted and sharpened, they were separated into groups, each more deadly than the next.

The sight made her wary, yet she stepped over the threshold and soon found that the tent, though cluttered with artillery, was empty. Her ally--the scout--was not in residence. The realization that his absence bothered her was a thought Reagan guessed was better left alone.

If anything, she rationalized, Tristan was a self sufficient being that relied less on human companionship and more on the tolerant and uncompromising company of animals. Reagan should have expected to find his tent unoccupied. She left quickly, wondering if she'd overstepped her bounds.

The camp was restless, just as it had been that morning before the men had left. Four of their number had perished and been buried, and yet half the day was not gone. Reagan wondered at their merriment. Did they not mourn those that had fallen? Were they not concerned that one of their commanding officers lay in peril from a wound to the shoulder? Her outward indignation was wasted as she realized that these men were just happy to be survivors.

Feeling as if a lifetime had passed since she'd risen that morning, Reagan pushed the tent flap aside, weakly taking note of the filthy and stained armor stacked with care in the corner, knowing that it would be her duty later to restore it to its lustrous shine. With an inward groan of dismay, she forced herself to look around her tent.

It was as immaculate she'd left it, not a pitcher, blanket, or tapered candle out of place. Her commander sat slumped on his cot, staring blankly at the rug between his booted feet.

Reagan stopped, not knowing how to proceed; she'd eagerly sought Tristan's company moments before, but now faced with Lancelot's brooding she found herself unsure of her approach. It wasn't until she caught the sight of his poorly wrapped left hand and the telltale blood that blossomed bright against the white fabric of the bandage that she felt herself move.

He turned his head silently and the look of anguish she saw there made her breath catch in her throat. Lancelot was not as unfeeling as he pretended. No indeed, he seemed to wear his grief plainly on his face.

"My lord, you're bleeding!" She exclaimed, alarmed, as he slowly regarded his sloppily bandaged hand.

"It's nothing, just a flesh wound," Lancelot replied, trying to play down the cut on his palm. Reagan reached for him, completely ignoring his half-hearted protests. She then knelt beside him on the floor as she unwound the bandage as gently as possible.

The blood was vivid against the white linen and the closer it got to his palm the worse the stain became. Finally the wound was exposed, and she gasped. It wasn't deep, but it looked horrid and painful.

"Why did you not say something to Ivy?" She asked a bit too harshly; angry at him for not letting they know he was hurt.

"This is not a mortal wound, you had other more pressing people to care for. Galahad, for instance, how is he?" Reagan took a deep breath and answered him.

"He is fine, he sleeps now and so we wait. If there is no fever it will be a miracle," she replied, knowing full well the interminable waiting and watching would be too much to bear.

She thought of Ivy and wondered how she was faring; Reagan knew she would have to return to the healing tent soon, as she was not going to let Ivy keep watch over Galahad alone. Taking another look at the ghastly cut on Lancelot's palm, she sighed.

"At least allow me to clean and dress this wound properly." Lancelot gave her a slightly offended look.

"The way I dressed my own wound wasn't good enough?"

"Not unless you want to contract a fever as well!" Looking somewhat chagrined at her harsh tone, he sighed and looked resigned. Smiling at getting her way, Reagan reached for some clean bandages and a pot of poultice she had made herself and kept in their tent for just such an occasion.

Making sure her hands were clean, she dipped part of one of the bandages into the green mixture and proceeded to apply it to his palm. She felt his eyes burning into her as she bowed her head and concentrated on the task at hand.

At one point she wondered if he actually leaned closer to her and smelled her hair. She looked up quickly at the thought and he sat up straight, grimacing as she gripped his hand harder.

"Ow!" He complained, scowling at her.

"Oh, it doesn't hurt! Stop being such a ninny!" She scolded, smearing the poultice over the cut and reaching for a clean bandage.

"I've been called many things in my day but never a ninny!" he shot back, wincing as she gently pushed the end of the bandage into the cut.

"Oh really?" Reagan asked, trying to distract him as she began to wrap his hand.

"Perhaps strong or handsome and sometimes..." Lancelot paused, pretending to give the idea some thought. He leaned in closer to her, until she was forced to look into his eyes, "lusty" he continued, practically leering at her.

She should have been suspicious of the devilish glint in their depths. Reagan narrowed her eyes at him before tying the bandage in one tight knot, garnering a small amount of satisfaction at watching him flinch as she did so.

"Is 'ninny' the first thing that comes to your mind when you think of me?" He asked, watching her carefully as she looked up at him from her spot on the floor. He was acting strangely, she thought: why did he care what she thought of him? In fact, this was the first conversation they'd had together in days and she wasn't surprised the topic was Lancelot himself.

"No." She replied with a smile before moving to stand. "Though I have to ask, has anyone ever called you vain?" He gave her a crooked grin in response. Reagan felt herself shake her head at his strange reaction. She'd meant it as an insult and he looked as if he'd actually taken pleasure in the fact that she thought him vain. Was there no end to the man's preening? He was a peacock indeed.

She went to wash her hands in the basin making up her mind that her commander was in a strange mood today. She avidly felt his eyes follow her movements around the tent. Why was he watching her so closely? He'd never paid that much attention to what she did before. She made a great show of drying her hands when she felt him get up from his position on the cot and approach her.

Suddenly it seemed as if his presence was directly behind her, his body a hairsbreadth away from her own, and Reagan did not have time to stifle a gasp of surprise and shock.

Lancelot's arms smoothly went out on either side of the wash basin, effectively caging her. Reagan felt her heart jump in her throat, her addled mind not quite able to process what was happening.

She turned in his loose embrace, "My lord, you're blocking my..." she trailed off, as he stared down at her with unfathomable dark eyes and she realized with a small amount of fear and some other dark and dangerous emotion, that she was trapped.

"Excuse me, squire," he said his deep voice sending shivers down her spine that had nothing to do with fear. She could only blink up at him in dazed wonder as he bent toward her, reaching for something.

Closer and closer he came until she felt as if he were going to swallow her whole. She had never noticed how much larger he was, how much stronger, how much more dangerous he could be if she was not prepared. Fighting a panic that was not completely unfounded she tried to dodge left to get out of his way but he effortlessly blocked her.

Reagan felt her eyes close for a second trying to process exactly what was happening and that was her undoing. Suddenly he seemed everywhere, yet Lancelot never touched her, at least not with his hands.

His unusual scent bombarded her, the sound of his even breathing filled her ears she turned her head away, trying to escape this ghost of an embrace when he bent even closer toward her. She felt the flutter of his long lashes caress her cheek, the tip of his nose slid gently against the curve of her jaw, but it was when his lips grazed the soft skin of her neck just below her ear, a whisper light touch that sent her reeling. Desire dark and wicked unfurled inside her.

Reagan fought the urge to lean into him, to sink further into this tender trap of her own making. She felt her hands reach up to grasp his forearms for purchase and instead she grabbed nothing but air.

Opening her eyes in shock she blinked trying to focus on her surroundings. Lancelot sat on his cot, exactly where she'd left him, wiping at his black tunic with a drying cloth. For a moment Reagan wondered if she had imagined the entire exchange.

Had it not been for the drying cloth in his hands she would have been certain that she had conjured up the whole unbelievable scenario in her desperate and overwrought imagination.

He made a great show of cleaning invisible specks of dirt from his immaculate tunic looking up at her with guileless eyes, while she stood there wavering on the spot. If she had been of a sounder mind she would have noticed a small yet very telling look of satisfaction flit across his features.

As it was, she could barely process the indulgent grin he gave her instead.

"Once you have finished your tasks in the healing tent, squire, you'll need to fetch more clean water for washing; there are also two more tunics that need mending, as well as a few that are in need of a good washing. After that is done and if it is still daylight you'll need to continue with your strength exercises. I don't want you going soft just because we've not properly trained together in the last few days. That's going to change tomorrow."

She nodded, a sinking feeling in her stomach. Mending, washing, healing, training, and then perhaps after everything was done she could collapse in a heap of exhaustion--with his permission of course.

He cocked his head and regarded her once more, "Why, squire, you looked flushed. Surely those tasks are not too much for you to handle?"

_She looked flushed?_ _Too much for her to handle?_ Something was definitely amiss, just what it was she couldn't say but she would know sooner rather than later. Smiling back at him with equal guile she replied,

"No, my lord, I shall endeavor to complete the tasks you've set before me."

"Good," he replied, as if the matter brooked no room for argument. He tossed her the drying cloth, which she caught with one hand and folded before placing it back on the table behind the chipped porcelain washbasin. He unfolded himself and lay down, settling on his cot as if he were going to take a wonderfully long nap.

Reagan resisted the urge to walk up to him and kick the cot like a spoiled child. Envy was a mortal sin and she wasn't about to debase herself even further. She grabbed at the tunics he'd motioned to at the foot of his bed, wadding the garments up tightly.

She flirted with the idea of flinging them at him, but he looked so worn and pale and nothing like himself as he lay there, that Reagan felt herself begin to soften toward this vulnerable side of Lancelot. It was something she'd come to regret much later.

* * *

Lancelot strode into the tent later on that evening after doing his nightly check on the camp, making sure they were well guarded and that the wounded were kept in good spirits and faring well.

All in all they were a lucky group; they'd suffered a small loss but those men had died valiantly and bravely. Galahad worried him though, the fever had set in and now there was an added danger to his already grievous wound. Tristan and Ivy sat diligently by his side and Reagan had helped when she could.

He supposed his list of tasks he had set Reagan was perhaps a bit too long but he had watched her throughout the day as she did her best to complete as many as she could.

Lancelot had to admit that he was proud of her, proud of the way she handled herself in the healing tent with the other men and especially proud of the way she had acted capable and brave in Ivy's hour of need.

Hopefully, he thought, there would be a place for her when they got back to the kingdom, as it was now apparent that she could no longer be his squire. Unfortunately Reagan could not work in the stables either, once her secret was finally out.

Lancelot hoped that Dagonet and Ivy would welcome her in the healing rooms. If not, Guinevere could always use another handmaiden, but he had the feeling that Reagan would not enjoy that. She didn't exactly strike him as the courtly type.

At least, he reasoned, she would have a place in the kingdom under Arthur's protection and under his own watchful eye. The thought gave Lancelot a small amount of comfort. It was the least he could do to protect her and make sure that that slime Rullus would keep his greedy claws to himself.

Rullus would certainly have no power under Arthur's rule. Lancelot wanted her safe and he wanted her well taken care of, the gods knew she could hardly take care of herself.

Shaking his head at his internal train of thought, he strode over to the small writing desk, gathering maps and various scrolls along the way from the trunk at the foot of his bed. He needed to plan a way to get home once Galahad was well enough to travel. There would be no further inspections, not when there were Saxons out in the open ready and willing to strike again. He could not afford to lose any more of his men.

Lancelot only hoped that their whereabouts had not been spotted, although he already knew that was not a likely possibility. He did not wish to invite the thought of an attack on the camp.

Just as he approached the small table he realized he was not alone in the tent, as he had first thought. No indeed, Reagan was there, collapsed in a ragged heap and clutching one of his green hunting tunics, a ball of red thread laying carelessly at her side.

She had been mending his green tunic with red thread? He bent down next to her to gently extract the tunic from her clutches.

The fabric unfolded and he was presented with a handsome tunic with two bright red roses embroidered one on the left and one on the right directly in the center. Each flower was about the size of his palm; they were large, and they were ghastly, and they were...amusing.

Lancelot should have been angry at her for so deviously ruining one of his good hunting tunics, but he just stared at her handiwork and found himself grinning.

It seemed as though she had managed to finish her artistry before she had drifted off. He inspected the garment; it was mended nicely and she had sewn a few more wooden toggles on to it and repaired the rip at the hem.

It was the embellishment of the roses that had him wondering what she had done with his other tunic. He set the hunting tunic aside and reached for the other carefully folded garment.

It was another of his black tunics; again it had been finely mended, although this time it had been embellished with green thread. This one had tiny leaping frogs creeping along the back shoulders and down the front. They were in different positions but it was an obvious pattern and it was ridiculous.

He wondered exactly how many of his tunics he'd unwittingly given her to mend that she had added her own special touch to. Suddenly it wasn't as amusing as he'd first thought it. Actually it was damn devious and sneaky on her part-- those were perfectly good tunics he'd entrusted into her care.

The girl in question mumbled in her sleep and turned away from him as if she could sense his darkening mood. Reagan's dark lashes curved against the pale skin of her cheek and he wondered again how he had ever thought she resembled a boy.

Her features were a delicate mix. Her eyes --her strongest feature-- tilted up at the corners, giving her an almost elfin quality, and when she looked at you they were the first thing you noticed about her. He had to admit he'd never seen anything like her and she was quite pretty even with her short uneven hair that had a tendency to stick up in various directions at any given time.

He could see the appeal she held and had no doubt that Tristan's interest in her was not a passing fancy, but he had been given to understand they had already come to a mutual agreement as to where they stood. Why she had refused him, however, was another in a list of long questions Lancelot had no answer to.

Reagan had collapsed in the middle of the tent and she could not stay there. However annoyed Lancelot was at her, he could not let her sleep on the hard floor amongst her sewing. Moving the things surrounding her aside, he scooped her up and marveled at how light she felt in his arms. Her head hung awkwardly over his other arm but he didn't move to adjust it before dropping her down on his cot a bit too roughly.

The none-too-gentle action jarred her awake momentarily, causing her to blink up at him with luminous blue eyes cloudy with sleep and give him a grin. Shaking his head at her in wonderment he made to move away when she clutched at his left arm, dragging him back to her with surprising strength.

Maybe his training had not been all for naught? Lancelot thought to himself, in what would be the last semi-coherent thought he would have for the next few minutes because in the blink of an eye she had wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and brought his mouth to hers in a move that had none of the finesse of a practiced woman and all of the hunger of a complete novice.

Lancelot made a choked sound of surprise, which was unlike him. Usually he was never surprised when a woman kissed him, but in this case he'd been caught completely unawares. Stunned for a moment, he bent down awkwardly toward Reagan as he watched as her eyes fluttered closed.

Again he was overwhelmed by the unique smell of her. Their encounter in the tent earlier today had been of his own making, carefully planned and manipulative. It had taken all of the self discipline he possessed to tear himself away from her the moment he grazed the deliciously soft skin of her neck. Reagan smelled of mint and soap and it was intoxicating.

This time her beguiling scent was mingled with sleep and her body was warm and pliant instead of stiff and tense. Suddenly Lancelot found himself taking lead of their kiss, following his own instincts and helping Reagan to find hers.

He pulled his mouth away from hers, brushing his lips over hers and finding the best ways they fit together. Reveling in the feel of her wonderfully plump lower lip, he nibbled on it before trying to coax her into letting him deepen the kiss.

Reagan had obviously never been kissed before and her reactions were genuine. There was none of the forced desire of some of the more experienced women of the fort he'd dallied with. Instead, she welcomed him, tangling her fingers in his hair and gasping as his tongue swept into her mouth. Lancelot suddenly felt his breeches go three sizes too small and realized they were treading dangerous ground.

Reluctantly he separated himself from her, reaching up to loosen her hold on his neck and she looked as bereft as he felt for a split-second afterwards. Again she watched him with those big blue eyes as if she were trying to find the sum of his parts. Blinking twice sleepily, she yawned, her lips were swollen and her cheeks were pink, he noticed, and it took everything he had not to kiss her again.

Then as if nothing of import had happened, she turned away from him, snuggling deeper into the furs on his cot, and promptly fell back asleep.

_Well, that had never happened to him before._ Lancelot stood there for a confused moment, wondering what had just transpired between them. First she'd been asleep and then she attacked him as if he were a particularly delicious biscuit, which was not to say he didn't enjoy it, and then she was asleep again.

Usually when he kissed a woman it was not preceded by sleep and then followed by sleep. Sleeping usually followed or preceded a more rigorous activity where he was concerned, and sometimes said activity had no sleeping involved at all.

But as with everything that concerned Reagan, this was an entirely new experience for him as well. Interesting, he mused, walking stiffly back to the small desk in the center of the tent while trying to adjust himself so his breeches fit him a little bit better with each step.

Sitting down, he reached for the first map, turning it so it was facing the correct direction. Perhaps tomorrow he would summon her to sup with him in the evening, after her duties were done in the healing tent. Perhaps he would wear one of his tunics she'd been so kind to leave her mark on and see how long it took her before she broke down and told him everything.

He grinned and poured himself some wine while he listened to the rhythmic sound of her deep and even breathing, which was broken only by an incomprehensible mumble or two. Maybe tomorrow was not too soon to enact the second part of his plan…

AN: **Well, it wasn't a six month wait this time...I do hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. I know nothing really "M" worthy happened in this chapter but given the events of future chapters I felt it safe (and PC) to change the rating. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed/read/added alerts so far. It really encourages me to continue. Chapter 14 to come soon (promise)! **


	14. Chapter 14

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story; I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**Lots of thanks to the beta team! Leigh, Jo and Murt you guys do a great job of editing!**

**For Peachpaige, who really knows how to make a girl laugh. **

"_And, Like another Helen, fir'd another Troy…Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire."_ **John Dryden**

Chapter 14

Reagan woke the next morning bright and early. The first thing she registered was that she was not in her own bed. She was desperately trying to hang on the last vestiges of a dream and the blankets were warm and smelled wonderful, but the unfamiliar feeling of being in someone else's bed had her sitting up so quickly she felt dizzy.

Grabbing her head to stop the spinning, she noticed that she had somehow ended up in Lancelot's cot. She scrambled off of it and looked over herself quickly, breathing a sigh of relief that she was still fully clothed. She made her way to the washbasin and changed out of her wrinkly tunic and into the red one she'd washed last night.

Pulling on her boots, she carefully tucked in the bottom of her breeches before lacing them. A thought, perhaps a fragment from a dream she had last night kept resurfacing while she was trying to dress. Something had happened, something interesting and exciting and she couldn't for the life of her remember what it was.

Remembering that she'd left all of her sewing on the floor last night before she'd finally succumbed to sleep she went to go pick it up, finding that all of the items were where she'd left them.

Reagan carefully folded the two freshly mended tunics, biting her bottom lip at the knowledge that she'd forgotten to hide them before falling asleep. She did grin, though, as she looked over her garish handiwork before burying them in the pile of tunics at the foot of Lancelot's bed. All he had to do was stop asking her to mend for him and he might have a salvageable tunic left in his collection.

Shrugging, as she still couldn't figure out if she'd crawled her way into his cot last night because it was the closest bed or if she'd sleepwalked into it, she tossed the blankets over it, smoothing them out as best she could, and then made her way out of the tent.

The camp was beginning to stir and show the first signs of life; Lancelot was already up and out of the tent before she'd even noticed. The nagging question of how she came to be in his bed was better left unanswered, although she did wonder where he had rested the night before- if he had at all. He seemed to be burning the candle at both ends lately.

She did her morning sword practice without Finn, and even without his encouragement she had to admit her swordsmanship had greatly improved. After completing her strength exercises, she visited Malachi and made sure he was brushed down and had fresh water to drink. Luckily the great black horse was in one of his fairer moods that morning and he nuzzled her shoulder affectionately.

Reagan then grabbed a quick breakfast from the cook and entered the healing tent, which was a buzz with activity.

Ivy looked as if she'd hardly slept at all, which, considering her situation, she probably hadn't. Her blue working dress was wrinkled and her hair was an uncombed tangle of fiery red curls that looked as if they could have used a good scrubbing. Her pale skin was almost translucent and the large dark circles under her eyes were telling.

This was the first time Reagan had ever seen Ivy even resemble unattractiveness. Moving to the apprentice's side she anticipated her next move and had the particular poultice Ivy was reaching for at the ready.

Ivy stopped moving, seeming to finally register another presence in the tent. She gave Reagan a weak smile and moved to tend to a soldier that had a rather nasty arrow wound to the thigh. He was due for new dressings and Reagan knew that Ivy had been kept busy all night tending to the wounded.

Finn had been there to help her as best as he could; the ginger-haired youth was collapsed at the foot of Galahad's bed, cradling his head on his arms, exhausted.

"Ivy, I can dress this man's wounds. Why don't you go get a bite to eat from the cook, you must be famished. You won't be any good to these men exhausted and half-starved!" Reagan scolded, gently prying the pot of poultice from her loose clutches.

Ivy seemed to ponder the offer a bit longer than usual, her green gaze straying to the knight sleeping fitfully on the cot in sweat-dampened clothes, and she hesitated.

Reagan looked at Galahad: his skin was sallow and the fever had him a in a firm grip. Reagan refused to think such a young, vital man would succumb so quickly to a shoulder wound and fever.

"As soon as I am done cleaning this gentleman's wound, I will make sure Galahad has fresh cold compresses and is given his dose of willow bark." At those words Ivy regarded Reagan once more, weariness and grief seeping from her pores. Nodding, she moved to leave her post.

"Tristan shall be back soon. He's gone to confer with Lancelot, they left for a short hunt not two hours ago." Ivy motioned to Finn, "Make sure he's comfortable, he refuses to leave his commander's side, you can understand."

And with that she made her way slowly outside, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the bright morning sunlight. Reagan sighed and set to work.

The soldier, who was a young man close to her age with cropped hair the color of hay, complained very little and was happy to receive clean dressings. His thigh wound looked to be healing nicely already and Reagan thanked god that he would be spared a fever. She made him drink a mug of spiced mead with very little protest and eat some bread to keep up his good sprits before letting him settle back into his late afternoon doze.

She checked on the other two wounded soldiers and made sure that they were faring well enough to at least eat and drink before she moved over to Galahad.

Reagan made a makeshift pallet for Finn out of a few spare blankets, laying them out on the floor near Galahad, and managed to unfold a rather confused and exhausted Finn onto them. The boy settled down nicely, mumbling his half-hearted thanks to her before falling into a deep sleep.

Reagan poured fresh ice-cold water into a wooden bowl and grabbed a handful of linens. She set them down at the edge of Galahad's bed and knelt before him.

His skin smelled of sweat and blood. It was not a pleasant smell, and his usually spruce, scruffy beard looked wilted. His closed eyes had sunk further into his skull and she could see them move about beneath his eyelids, engaged in some fever dream.

His wound had not bled through his dressings and for that she was thankful. Her stitches were holding and it seemed that the mixture they had packed it with was doing its task well.

Reagan dipped one of the cloths in the cold water and removed the sodden, sickly warm one from his forehead. She draped it gently across his hair line and a bit over his eyes.

"You must get better," she said quietly into his ear. "You have to, Ivy needs you whether she wants to admit it or not." His hands twitched, and she realized that it was not her plea, but his fevered dreams that evoked such a response

Reagan applied a fresh compress twice more before moving to set a small iron pot to boil over the brazier in the center of the tent. She had just begun to steep the willow bark shavings in a bowl when Ivy returned. She looked slightly refreshed but no less worried.

Ivy moved to accept the willow bark tea without Reagan's consent and she knew not to argue. Reagan only watched as Ivy gently removed the now warm compress from Galahad's forehead. Reagan said nothing as she watched Ivy trace her fingers along his skin in an almost loving and familiar fashion, and was struck with the memory of the apprentice healer doing that once before when she thought no one was looking.

This time it seemed Ivy was not ashamed in her desire to touch Galahad.

She motioned for Reagan to help raise his head and Ivy gently administered the tea, managing to get at least three sips down her patient's dry throat before he began to choke. Reagan then watched silently as Ivy set about wiping his chin and chest in a fashion that made Reagan's throat tighten in sorrow.

Perhaps it was the way Ivy openly and without regret displayed her affection for Galahad that made Reagan want to cry, or perhaps it was the situation. Galahad's wound was serious and she did not pretend that he wasn't hanging in that precarious space between life and death. Or perhaps it was a combination of Ivy's obvious display of affection and Galahad's affliction that had made her feel so vulnerable.

Whatever it was, Reagan had to fight back tears.

Reagan quickly stepped outside the tent, taking great deep breaths that smelled richly of the forest as she gathered her thoughts and her emotions. The last time she cried she was reprimanded and rightly so, this time she did not want to seem weak. It would not help Ivy to see her tears and they would certainly be of no use to Galahad.

"He is faring far worse than when I left this morning, I take it." Tristan said, his rough voice startling her. She turned to look at him thankful that she had held back her tears, although her grief must have shown plainly on her face.

"Yes, he seems to be in the thick of it, my lord." He nodded at her, his face, as always, a blank. The dark tribal tattoos under his eyes stood out sharply against his skin. Reagan had to look away for fear of being caught staring at the mysterious marks.

Tristan was still clad in his worn hunting attire as he entered the healing tent. Reagan remained outside, the thought of going back in making her throat constrict again.

Perhaps she wasn't as capable of handling some of the more stressful situations in the healing tent as she'd first thought. Finding an overturned log, she sat down, holding her chin in the palm of her hand as she stared sightlessly at a pile of ash in the fire pit before her.

Dusk was beginning to settle in and most of the day had already escaped her. Getting up as one of the soldiers came over to start the fire for her, she brushed the dirt and bark from the back of her breeches and made her way back to her own tent.

She entered without preamble and stopped short. Lancelot had every candle lit and a fire blazed merrily in the brazier, flooding the usually dark tent with light. He sat at the small desk in the center of the tent, his shoulders slumped as he shifted in his chair, surrounded by maps and scrolls; the scowl creasing the skin between his dark brows was an expression that was becoming overly familiar to Reagan.

It seemed that he scowled at everything lately. His firm jaw was set and unmoving, his expressive mouth down turned. His dark curls hung in his eyes and Lancelot restlessly pushed them back only to have them fall back into place seconds later.

Quietly, she moved to the washbasin, afraid to disturb him. Reagan rinsed her hands, the memory of her strange encounter with him yesterday in this very spot making her muscles tense and her heart pound.

Did he suspect something? Or did she imagine the whole thing? In her desire for him to notice her had she perhaps made something more out of it than it was? And why did she have this nagging feeling that she was forgetting something tremendous? It sat on the edge of her consciousness, a wisp of memory that she couldn't grasp.

"I think your hands should be clean enough now." His sardonic remark cut through the quiet and made her jump. Reagan swiped at a drying cloth, turning around to address him as she should have when she first entered the tent. She prayed that her face wasn't as red as it felt.

"Good evening my lord. Can I-"

"How is Galahad?" Lancelot asked, cutting her off as he unrolled another map, turning it this way and that. Reagan waited for him to settle the map in the correct direction before she answered.

"He is as to be expected, my lord. The fever has a firm grip on him, but his wound has not gotten worse." He nodded, not once looking up as she spoke.

"And the other men? Does Ivy have everything under control?" he rattled off those questions as she watched him trace a line of ink with his forefinger, stopping at a certain point on the map.

"I'm happy to report that the other men are doing well and should be able to go back to their own duties in a few days if they continue to heal at this rate. Sir Galahad is our main concern at the moment." She added, hoping to prod him into action.

Why had he not visited his brother in arms yet? Why did he not go see for himself how poorly Galahad was faring?

"Mine as well." He bit off in nothing short of a growl. Well, that settled it, she thought, he was in another of his fine moods this evening, splendid. Perhaps she should go back to the healing tent--at least the atmosphere wouldn't be as tense even with the spectre of death hanging over it.

Finally he pushed away the maps and heaved a great sigh, running his hands through his hair and sitting up and stretching in his chair.

"Why don't you do your duty and fetch us some supper? There are some things I would like to discuss with you." Reagan nodded briskly, a knot taking up residence in her stomach at the words. The last time he wanted to discuss something with her the conversation had been a disaster. She could only hope this time it wouldn't be half as embarrassing.

She moved quickly, fetching supper from the cook and having him put the bread trenchers filled with warm pheasant and vegetables on a tray along with a pitcher of ale. Reagan must have thanked the man a thousand times before she carefully picked her way back through the camp to the tent.

When she returned, the maps were off the desk and a second chair had been placed at the opposite side. Some of the candles had been extinguished, giving the large tent a particularly ominous feel. He stood with his back to her, his arms folded behind him as he rocked back and forth on his heels as if he were impatient for her to return.

"Supper, my lord." Reagan said and he turned around at the sound of her voice. Reagan gasped aloud, her fingers going lax and she almost dropped the tray in her surprise. He was wearing the green tunic she and mended for him yesterday--the one she had embroidered the two large horrid red roses onto.

Lancelot by all accounts should have looked ridiculous; instead he wore the tunic as if it was a kingly mantle and to her utter horror it looked striking on him.

His dark eyes could have burned a hole into her and Reagan looked anywhere but at him. Gathering her wits for the second time that day, she barely had time to right the tray before setting it down on the table.

"Good, let us eat; there is much to talk about." His tone was overly friendly and Reagan didn't know if she should sit down or not; he motioned for her to take her seat and she reluctantly obeyed. Perhaps if she didn't look at him it would be easier to eat.

He spoke of nothing in particular and she was forced to carry on conversation that had nothing to do with his embellished tunics or the fact that she had done something to his clothing that she deserved a good flogging for.

Yet, every time she replied she didn't look at his face. Instead she stared at those two garish, bright red roses on his chest and she could not look away. It was as if they mocked her for her own foolishness, sitting jaunty on his chest as if they had always belonged there. Finally she heard him sigh in exasperation.

"Look at me and not my chest when you speak to me." She blinked, shaking her head as if to clear it. She mumbled an apology and looked up at him.

"Forgive me, my lord, it just that your tunic..." She trailed off, not knowing how to tactfully apologize for her actions. Lancelot looked down and chewed a piece of pheasant, thoughtfully plucking at one of the roses.

"Yes, I had thought to mention this wondrous piece of embroidery to you, but then I realized I rather like it."

"You like it?!" She fairly screeched, clamping her mouth shut. He looked at her as if she'd sprouted a second head.

"Yes, and the two other tunics you so generously made for me. I particularly like the one with the vines and the peacock, quite…" He paused as if searching for just the right word, "Expressive." She stared at him dumbstruck, her mouth gaping.

"Please close your mouth squire and finish chewing you food before you speak."

But she could not stop herself from confusedly muttering, "Peacock...generously...he likes them?"

"Yes, that is one of the things I wished to discuss with you. Your talent for embroidery. Young boys your age don't usually know such a way with needle and thread unless it is used for horse tack. How did you come to learn such a trade? Your mother perhaps?"

Reagan blinked. The conversation had taken a sharp turn, his tone suddenly changing though his demeanor remained overly friendly. Instantly she became suspicious.

Nodding, she said slowly, lying through her teeth. "Yes, my mother." He made a non-committal sound of acceptance and picked at his meat once more.

"Well it seems to me that you are quite a talented young boy in areas where other boys would have absolutely no interest. Your knowledge of herbs and gardening, for instance, and your preference for cleaning." He looked around the immaculate tent as if to illustrate his point.

She followed his eyes and shrugged. She liked cleanliness, nothing wrong there, so why did he bring it up?

"You also have a distinct and almost unnatural desire for bathing." At those words Reagan almost choked on her sip of ale. Swallowing with difficulty, she set her mug down. He took notice of her bathing? This should worry her.

"Bathing, my lord?" she croaked, hoping she sounded innocent enough.

"Yes, bathing. When I was your age I wouldn't bathe for weeks at a time. It wasn't until the smell became too much for my comrades that something was done about it. It took three of my brothers to hold me down and scrub me until my skin was about to fall off before I decided there were merits to regular bathing. Although, at the time I hated it," he said with finality, as if that particular point had driven the final nail into her coffin.

"You've said before that I am a strange boy, so why would my preference for bathing and cleanliness be of any concern to you? It should only confirm what you already know about me. I'm not like other boys." Reagan replied with an overly bright smile, meeting his narrowed gaze evenly. She blinked and he scowled.

She had a feeling he was trying to make a point with this conversation by listing her faults. What exactly his point was became incredibly unclear. If there was anything Lancelot wasn't good at it was making his point without going about it the long way around.

"No indeed," he said, his deep voice holding a particular tenor that set her on edge. "You are not like other boys." It was the way he said it with an emphasis on the word boy that caused Reagan to stop breathing. Black dots swam before her eyes and she grabbed the table edge for purchase.

Lancelot was the most capable and calculating man she had ever met. She should have never underestimated him. Reagan looked up at him, and his expression seemed to almost soften as he watched her. She pondered that for a spilt second before the entire world went black.

For the first time in her nineteen long years Reagan fainted.

AN: **Well the "plan" wasn't to update this until next Thursday. However, I'm now working an 80+ hour week and I didn't know how in the world I'd get you an update on time. So instead of making everyone wait, I decided to post this early. Sadly, that means you might have to wait a bit longer for Chapter 15. The good news is Chapter 15 is finished, so after final edits are made I promise to post that as soon as I can- if I haven't collapsed from exhaustion by then :) Oh, and Chapter 15 had me sweating the entire time I was writing it...holy jeeze...the confession scene is finally here and I didn't think things would go smoothly between Lancelot and Reagan. Lets just say that they don't - ACK!**

**I hope this cliffy doesn't make too many people mad at me. **

**Until Chapter 15! :)**


	15. Chapter 15

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story; I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**Lots of thanks to the beta team! Leigh, Jo and Murt you guys do a great job of editing!**

**For Orange-Peaches, because your bad jokes always make me giggle. And because she loves Lancelot just as much as I do.**

**_With out further ado, here is chapter 15 _**

**_NOTE: THIS IS A REPOST FROM YESTERDAY. NOTHING HAS CHANGED. Apparently this site went all wonky on me yesterday and I've not been able to receive alerts or send any replies for any reviews. Did any of you get alerts yesterday that this story was updated? Damn internet..._**

_Rarely do great beauty and great virtue dwell together._ **Petrarch**

Chapter 15

_Reagan was dreaming. She was floating on an endless sea of inky blackness, surrounded by nothing but cool water and the soft welcoming sounds of the tide on a distant shore. It was beautiful, it was serene, it was a nightmare. Suddenly the water started churning violently around her and she began to sink down into its treacherous depths. She fought her way to the surface as her lungs burned and ached for air but the still serene surface drifted further and further away from her. Deeper and deeper she sank until there was no way out. She kicked, stretching and reaching with her arms but to no avail. The sea had swallowed her whole and Reagan came to the terrifying realization as she succumbed to its violent pull that she had no fight left in her._

"Reagan!" the shout caused her to moan in pain. Light danced over her closed eyelids and she tried to turn away from it, managing to get a face full of fabric in the process. Something pushed at her. She felt sharp stinging pains on her cheek.

"Reagan, wake up!" _That voice,_ she thought… It was distinct and familiar, commanding her attention. Reagan fought at the last shreds of exhaustion, trying to force herself to wake. She opened her eyes with difficulty, receiving a few more sharp slaps in the process.

"That's a good girl." The voice said, its deep tone overly patronizing. She suspected the man was trying to be kind, but enough with the slapping already! She pushed the hand away from her just as he touched her cheek. Blinking to conciseness, Reagan dragged air into her lungs with a deep breath.

Her first thought was that she was on the floor; the second was that she was being cradled in Lancelot's lap in a position that was incredibly awkward; the third had her still trying to figure out how she'd ended up there in the first place.

"Why am I on the floor?" Reagan demanded, fearing she would not like the answer.

She heard Lancelot laugh, the sound rumbling from deep within his chest. It startled her as her ear was pressed directly against him and it seemed too intimate a contact. Reagan began to push at him, trying to sit up. He put his arms around her and helped her, leaning her against the edge of his cot.

She glared at him and didn't like the telling grin he wore. She had that nagging feeling that she'd remember something horrible very soon and it wasn't pleasant.

"You swooned," he said as she leaned against the frame of the cot, trying for the life of her to gather her wits.

"I never swoon." She snapped back, angry that she had fainted in his presence. He said nothing, picking something off the table and pressing it into her hand.

"Drink that. It will help." She looked at the clay mug in her hand then back at Lancelot, her gaze suspicious enough to wipe the grin off his face.

"By the gods, woman, I have not poisoned it." He bit off sounding sour. She took a deep drink, trying to remember what had happened when something stopped her hazy train of thought.

Woman, he called her _woman_. Reagan looked at him with wide eyes.

"What did you just say?" She asked, her voice sounding sharp even to her own ears. Lancelot stood walking slowly back to the table to pick up his own mug.

"I told you there is nothing wrong with the ale, I drink it too." He took a big swallow for effect.

"No, no, you called me...woman," her tongue struggling to form the word. He stopped short, looked at her over the rim of his own mug, his dark eyes arresting as he watched her.

"That is what you are, correct?" Lancelot asked slowly as he sat down on his chair. Clearly he had the upper hand in this conversation and she couldn't help but feel as if he held her fate in his hands as well. Everything came flooding back to her in that instant, the supper, the tunics, and his underhanded confession that he knew her secret and was confronting her with the truth.

He'd kissed her. That was the most shocking memory. He'd kissed her while she'd been half asleep and she'd only now come to realize that he'd known about her far longer than he was letting on. Her latest antics only added fuel to his proverbial flames. It was sneaky, it was devious, and it was brilliant.

Reagan looked down into the half-empty depths of her mug, searching for an answer that wouldn't send her packing. How did one really begin to apologize for putting on a false front in order to survive?

_Sorry I had to pretend to be a boy so I didn't have to marry a lecherous son of an earl? Sorry I had to pretend to be a boy when really all I wanted to do was act like a girl and have you kiss me? Sorry Arthur made you take me as your squire?_ Oh yeah, that last one would go over really well. Reagan had never hated herself as much as she did at that particular moment.

"Please," he said with a regal sweep of his hand "Take all the time you need in answering, the gods know I'd love to see what kind of lie you can weave next." She winced at the well-deserved blow. "I can even give you a few more of my tunics for you to so kindly embroider for me should you seek to make a further fool out of me."

"I never sought to make a fool of you," Reagan replied weakly. "That was never my intention."

"Really?" He hissed, "Well you succeeded despite yourself, lady. You've made a merry fool of me, starting the moment I met you." It was his quiet calm as he said this that was so unsettling. She could handle his anger-- she would have welcomed it as opposed to this icy veneer of indifference he was showing her.

"How can you be trusted?" He asked, "and why did you not trust me enough to tell me your secret in the first place?" That last one made her ire rise. Glaring at him with defiant eyes she tried to defend herself.

"I did not know you then!" Reagan's voice rose. "Not as I do now!"

"Still yet you chose to confide in Tristan and not to me!" His black eyes glittered as he lent forward toward her, "Surely you don't know him any better, my lady, or do you?" It was impossible to mistake the innuendo in his question. Indeed, it was damning and shaming.

He was jealous, she realized. Lancelot was jealous of Tristan so he assumed the worst of her. She wanted to rise from her spot on the floor and slap the insolent smirk off his face for it. Reagan felt her face go red, whether from fury and hurt or from embarrassment that he thought her virtue such an easily won thing she did not know.

How could she explain to him that Tristan had been there to warn her when men had come looking for her? How could she explain to Lancelot that the scout had come to his own conclusions about her identity long before Lancelot himself had even come to suspect something was wrong? She couldn't--not without damning herself further in his eyes.

"Is that what you would believe of me?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as she wrapped her arms around herself to ward off any more of his ugly accusations. "That I've been consorting with your scout the entire time? All the while caring for you and serving you under the guise of an innocent boy? Do you really believe me capable of such treachery?" That seemed to take some of self-righteous bluster out of him. Lancelot had the decency to look away.

"I don't know what I believe any more." He muttered, more to himself than to her.

"Then try to believe that I never wished to betray you so openly and so often. Try to believe that every time I did I was wholly aware I would be losing what little of your precious trust I had falsely earned." Lancelot managed to look back at her as she spoke, his posture tense and his eyes wary as he took in her words.

"Try to believe that I only wanted to survive, to escape a fate that I deemed worse than death. You must know that I never wanted to be your squire, I couldn't stomach the thought of dragging the lie on that far." She finished lamely every muscle in her body stiff; she waited for him to say something, anything, to break the tension that crackled between them.

"And yet you did," he replied, and he needed to say no more than that.

He had every right to be angry at her, every right and there was nothing she could do to correct weeks of deceit and folly. Nothing. It was this impotence that made her want to scream at him that she had paid the price for her lies a thousand fold already. That she would have told him herself many times before had she only had the courage to trust him.

"That is my confession, sir, and now I find myself in the unenviable position of casting myself upon your mercy, should you have any." Reagan added, hoping the jab had hit its mark. He arched a dark sarcastic eyebrow in an invitation for her to continue.

"It has occurred to me that once you realized who I was you would cast me out and I would be forced to crawl back to Walendham with my tail between my legs waiting for Rullus to come and claim what is rightfully his. Since you have not yet done this and you have known for some time my true identity, I am willing to bargain with you for my safety." She looked at him, watching as he seemed to mull over the word _bargain_ as if it were particularly interesting.

Reagan rose from her spot on the floor and began to pace, waiting for him to say something. Whatever he wished for her to do she would, just so long as it kept her far from Waldenham. Suddenly the silence was broken by his laughter, it was a dark and calculating sound that made Reagan shiver with foreboding. She abruptly stopped her pacing, rubbing her hands on her arms for warmth.

"The deceitful little witch wishes to bargain with me for her safety." He said with a grin that did not meet his eyes. "Didn't you know I am not a man to garner a bargain from lightly?"

"It is not my intention to bargain lightly, my lord." Reagan winced at the wavering tone in her voice. "I've learned the hard way to never underestimate my opponents. Especially one so cunning as you."

She stepped back as he rose from his chair. Never had she felt his presence so keenly, never had she felt as much at the mercy of his whims as she did now, yet she did not back down. She had enough faith in his character to know he would never intentionally hurt her. He continued to advance on her slowly, the predator seeking is prey.

"Shall I name my demands?" Lancelot asked, "Are you willing to pay the price?" Reagan felt herself swallow hard.

"Are your demands so unreasonable, my lord, that you should expect me not to be able to pay?" Reagan drifted toward him, cocking her head so she could look her fill. She watched him shrug his shoulders as if it mattered not whether she could meet his unspoken demands, he would name them regardless and she would know if the price was too steep.

"What would you give me to garner your freedom and your ultimate safety from the lord that hunts you?" Reagan's heart began to pound, the question was ominous and she did not like the way he phrased it. Again she stood her ground. Her freedom? Even if he was capable of granting it, she was wise enough to realize that she would never be free of him.

"Name your price, my lord, and I will see if I can match it. If my gender renders me unfit to serve as your squire, surely a man of your rank and standing can think of other ways to use that to his advantage." Reagan watched a flicker of surprise cross his features; did he think she was a mewling child set and ready to flee at the thought of him demanding favors of her?

Instead of his squire, would she become his paramour? Could she trade seeking refuge from being mistress to one man, only to ultimately become mistress of another?

"How clever you are squire, to assume that is what I would demand of you." His tone was sharp as his hands clasped her shoulders, though his grip flirted with gentleness. "Shall I send you packing back to Waldenham without pardon, charged with high treason for willingly deceiving a high ranking knight of the realm and banished forever from Camelot? Or would you wish to remain here in my service as my squire, yet at my every whim and mercy forced to endure my attentions night after night, until I tire of you?"

Reagan met his desperate gaze boldly, "You may bully and growl at me all you like, but I haven't the faintest fear that you will force your attentions on me. You are as incapable of rape as any man I have ever met. I am not some silly little girl you can feed empty threats to." She added out of spite.

His answering bark of disbelieving laughter made her jump in his grasp. "Do you honestly believe that if you beg my pardon and refuse me that I will take my leave and never touch you?"

"Yes, that is exactly what I believe." She watched in satisfaction as his face fell. "That is why I am refusing you tonight." Her words fell on a silence that was so eerie, Reagan almost regretted uttering them.

Lancelot abruptly let go of her as if to touch her burned him. He backed away from her slowly as if he realized he had stumbled unawares into an enemy camp. He bumped into the desk knocking the pitcher of ale over. Reagan watched blankly as the amber liquid spilled over the edge and onto the rug. He sheepishly took stock of the tent and the mess the ale had made, running a hand through his hair. Turning back to her, his eyes regarded her feverishly.

"Do you mean to tell me that even though you have agreed to my terms, that even now you would have lain with me, let me touch you, let me kiss you, yet you would not have let me bed you?" The hint of incredulity in his voice was unmistakable.

"Yes." Reagan said with finality though the word cost her dearly.

"Why you brazen little-" He took a threatening step toward her.

"No!" Reagan shouted, holding out her hand as if that alone would stop his advance, but he did not stop until an inch of air crackled between them. Reagan resisted shrinking away from him, instead looking up at him towering over her and forcing herself to remember the man he was.

Lancelot, the noble first knight who would lay his life on the line for his king; he was the fierce warrior who had rode into battle countless times, faced foe after foe, and still mourned fallen brothers who had long since passed.

Lancelot the compassionate teacher who had reluctantly taken her under his wing and tried to show her how to defend herself. The passionate man who had cupped her face and kissed her tenderly as she gazed at him with sleep-filled eyes, the same man who respected her virtue enough not press her further that night for any other favor than a taste of her lips.

If she had misjudged that man's honor she would have been very sorry indeed.

She watched him and could almost see the silent war he waged within himself: A war between seduction and chivalry, mercy and revenge, passion and compassion. Just when she thought his baser needs might have won the battle he stepped away from her. He gave her a smile rife with challenge before he reached up and grazed her cheek with the back of his fingers.

Lancelot had picked up the gauntlet she had so hastily thrown down.

"You have chosen your weapons well, woman. Now I shall choose mine." And with that cryptic statement he turned on his heel and left, the outer flap of the tent smacked against the fabric.

Reagan sank down on the cot trembling like a leaf from the entire exchange. She reached up and touched her cheek; her skin still tingled from where he had touched it. Lancelot would not come to her tonight, of that she was certain. Tomorrow, however, held new opportunity and the memory of his chilling smile just before he left had Reagan wondering if she'd not just made a deal with the devil.

* * *

A storm was brewing. It was one of those dark tempestuous summer storms that made even the creatures of the night go quiet in wait. The sent of impending rain hung heavy throughout the forest. Ivy rubbed the back of her sore neck and glanced around her tent with bleary eyes, wondering how long had it been since she'd slept properly. Two days, three perhaps? She couldn't remember. She brewed herself a cup of tea to pass the time.

Finn had left to seek his own tent and some food after much prodding from her. Tristan had finally left her side, claiming Lancelot would soon need him. Ivy watched them go and found the fortitude to continue with her tasks. Reagan had not returned since she'd abruptly left before supper.

All of her patients were sleeping soundly, some more than others. She pushed her weary body off her stool and approached Galahad's cot for the hundredth time that day.

He slept the sleep of the ill and weak. This was no manufactured wound, she told herself, no trivial bump on the head. This time he'd not had too much to drink and fallen. This was a genuine wound that could cost him his life, and the fear she felt for him was no less genuine than the danger he was in.

Ivy pressed a closed fist to her mouth and suppressed a sob of grief so great that she almost choked on it. If only she'd been strong enough to finish her job, if only she'd not been so terrified to take a needle to his skin instead of making Reagan do her job for her, perhaps then Galahad wouldn't be hanging from the precarious thread of death.

Her internal sleep-deprived musings were enough to make anyone go mad. She replaced the compress, felt his sluggish pulse, heard his deep troubled breathing, and moved away again. It was better not to get too close, better not to give into the urges to touch him, to feel his dampened hair between her fingers, to listen to his breaths and thank god that he had survived this far.

Ivy went back to her tea, checking every now and again to make sure the men were resting without trouble. The storm had started and rain pelted the thick green canvas of her tent with a ferocity that that made her race to secure the entrance. Wind made the tent rock on its supports and Ivy wondered if the entire thing would collapse.

It was then that she heard the sound. It was so faint and insignificant she almost dismissed it and continued about her duties, but the sound came again, louder this time, more pronounced. It almost sounded like someone was calling her name.

Ivy hesitated, listening intently for the sound, her head turning on her neck so fast it made her wince in pain. Galahad was stirring and it was not the trembling motions of a fever dream that made him move. She rushed to his side, just as he was about to lift his head. His grey eyes were glassy and bloodshot, and they were the most beautiful things she'd witnessed in memory.

Gently she pushed him back down onto the bed, worried he might have already damaged his stitches in his attempt to rise. "You must stay still," she said in a voice that conveyed her concern.

"Ivy?" he croaked, reaching for the hand that pushed on his uninjured shoulder and forced him to lie back down.

"Yes," she replied as tears threatened to fall. Pressing a hand to his forehead, she realized his skin was cool and his breathing had almost returned to normal. His large hand swallowed her much smaller one and held it tightly before bringing it too his lips where he pressed a reverent kiss on the back of it, sighing.

"Ivy. Dear, sweet, beautiful Ivy," he murmured as a slight grin curved his roguish mouth. Ivy stared, captivated, her heart in her throat as a bolt of lightning illuminated the tent. "My shoulder hurts." he complained and it was if the flood gates had opened.

"Oh you fool! You stubborn, impossible fool," she chastised through her tears. She knew then that Galahad would live and she would accept him if he would still have her. Ivy felt a rush of emotions besiege her: relief and gratitude, happiness and longing, but above all else she felt love. She loved this persistent, stubbornly strong knight with a fierceness she hadn't known she possessed.

She clutched at his hand, afraid of letting go and watched him slide into a peaceful sleep, a grin still on his face. Ivy felt herself smile and before she could stop herself she laughed, the giddy sound ringing through the tent and competing with the crashes of thunder in the distance.

* * *

Reagan tossed and turned fitfully in a bed that seemed to swell to twice its normal size. An early summer storm raged outside and the darkened tent was illuminated by bolts of lightning that cast strange and menacing shadows against its canvas walls. The blankets and furs seemed to tangle themselves around her ankles and she kicked them off in annoyance. Even the flimsy linen shirt she wore seemed to wrap around her neck in a perverse noose. She clawed at the fabric, pulling it down over her body as if it could shield her from further harm.

Sleep came to her in sporadic fits and she was plagued by dreams that left her sweating and gasping for breath, trembling on some unnamed precipice that hinted at wicked things.

Reagan awoke from a particularly vivid dream to a shadowy figure hovering above her. Thinking this figure to be some manifestation of her overwrought imagination, her eyes tried to desperately focus. An errant drop of rain landed on her cheek, sliding down off her chin before being absorbed in the folds of her shirt. It was then Reagan realized her visitor was no ghost. Indeed, this was a flesh and blood man and she stared disbelievingly.

Her rational mind warned her that she should be afraid, even as she found herself reaching for him.

AN: **_ducks behind chair while you throw rocks at me for leaving it there_ **

**Honestly, did you really think Lancelot was going to leave her alone? Reagan while brave, is incredibly naive and she while she understands his more honorable nature she has no idea what lies beneath. Lancelot always struck me as a very dark, very passionate character who's personality reflects these two very opposite sides of his nature and I hope that I at least captured some of that here. **

**Galahad and Ivy are not out of the woods yet (no pun intended) and there is much of their story to be told.  
**

**I borrowed the line: "You've choosen your weapons well woman, now I shall choose mine." from Teresa Mederios' "Fariest of them all." It was such a great line and I wanted to fit it into that scene somehow. **


	16. Chapter 16

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story; I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**Thank-you to everyone who reviewed/wrote me about Chapter 15, it means a lot to see that everyone is enjoying the story so far. I know I certainly love to write it! **

**THIS CHAPTER HAS A STRONG "M" RATING. THIS MEANS THAT IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 16 YOU SHOULD NOT BE READING THIS! SHAME ON YOU! :) IF THE CONTENT OF THIS CHAPTER DOES BOTHER YOU PLEASE PM ME AND I WILL SEND YOU A PG-13 VERSION INSTEAD. **

**_gulp_ Okay...here is chapter 16.**

**For Jo, do you know how much I love having you as a beta? Also your reassurances about this chapter helped me to climb off my proverbial ledge! Love you!  
**

"_Pains of love be sweeter far, than all other pleasures are." __**John Dryden**_

Chapter 16

_He was officially in hell._

Lancelot strode from the tent as if a pack of demons nipped at his heels. Pushing down his unbearable frustration, he watched as men scurried from his path like frightened rabbits running from the big bad wolf. _These men would not disobey him_, he thought, gratified, _these men knew and respected his rank and power_.

_Yet_, a tiny little voice inside him said, _it only took one slip of a girl to cut you to the quick and make you think you're a man of substance and honor simply because she believes it so. Damn foolish girl. _His scowl turned thunderous and the men made a wide berth around him, he noted darkly.

He kicked angrily at a log in his path and pain sharply radiated up his leg, but he continued to stalk deeper into the forest. A storm was on the horizon, he felt it in his bones, smelled it on the air, and it suited him just fine. A raging storm to go with his black mood, it was almost poetic.

He did not have time to wax poetic about the situation, however, as he found himself deep into the thick forest. He turned about for a moment, wondering how he'd gotten in so deep to begin with.

Her voice echoed in his head: _"I did not know you then, not as I do now!"_ He snorted with distain at the fresh memory. Reagan, silly little girl that she was, did not know him at all. She was completely unaware of what he was capable of. If she knew of the violence, death, and destruction he'd dealt over the years she would have known better than to make such wild assumptions about his honor. Then to have her so boldly stand up to him and outright refuse his advances was outrageous. Didn't she know who he was? Didn't she realize the danger she was in?

"You told her, didn't you?" Tristan's gravely voice cut through the quiet and Lancelot snapped to attention, spinning on his heel to find the scout leaning against a massive tree trunk, his eyes turned upward to watch for Fionn.

"Why must you do that?" Lancelot snapped, feeling a righteous anger toward his friend that was not completely unfounded. "Do you find it amusing to sneak up on people?"

Tristan's gaze remained heavenward, how he could see anything through the canopy of trees was beyond Lancelot. He'd always believed Tristan possessed abilities that were outside his understanding.

"If you'd been paying attention, you would have seen me long before now." Lancelot felt his jaw clench, that telling tick of annoyance throbbed at the base of it. His fists clenched and unclenched and he fought the urge to turn on Tristan and bury his fist into his serene face.

"Are there flowers on your tunic?" The question caught him off guard and Lancelot regarded Tristan completely puzzled for a moment. Realizing the absurdity of the question, Lancelot felt his anger wilt, leaving him with only his dissatisfaction and no outlet for him to properly take care of it.

"Yes." He sighed, and he watched as Tristan finally looked at him. His eyes flickered to his chest and the red roses embroidered on it. He'd forgotten about the tunic and Lancelot swore he saw a faint smile cross the scout's face.

"Not a word." Lancelot bit off in warning, waiting for some cutting remark from Tristan that never came. He heard a flutter of strong wings rustle the leaves above. He spotted Fionn on her perch a tree limb above them.

"She refused you, didn't she?" Lancelot's attention was brought back to the scout. He nodded, feeling once again that unbearable sense of frustration and anger well up inside of him.

"She has no right to refuse me!" He found himself saying before he could stop the words. This earned him a steely glare from Tristan. Lancelot met it squarely.

"Why?" he asked. Always with the simple cut-to-the-chase questions. It was damn annoying. Lancelot was not in the mood for a cerebral argument; he'd actually like to have a nice brawl at the moment.

"Because she's mine." Lancelot said through clenched teeth, glaring at Tristan, daring the scout to defy him. Tristan met his gaze evenly; again that ghost of a smile twisted his lips.

Tristan's outwardly calm yet silent judgmental look made him feel guilty- as though he'd already done something wrong. At that moment Lancelot hated Tristan. Hated the way he felt toward him, hated that deep down he knew Tristan was the better man for Reagan. Lancelot forced himself to look away, breathing in sharply through his nose.

A horrible bitter and dark emotion he could not name twisted inside of him and it burned like acid. Lancelot had only ever felt this emotion once before and that was years ago. It had taken him weeks to set himself back to rights and come to terms with it. Occasionally he still felt a shadow of it when he watched Arthur and Guinevere, but it wasn't until he'd met Reagan that the treacherous emotion surfaced once more, brighter this time, more potent.

"You don't deserve her." The quiet declaration made Lancelot flinch. Tristan could not have wounded him more had he struck him.

"I'm fully aware of that fact." Lancelot said, resigned, full of self-loathing and aware of the glaring truth of Tristan's words.

"Yet, she wants you and not me." The scout continued. "Had it been the other way around I would not be standing here like a blustering fool in the middle of a forest. I would have already left my mark on her long before she even had a chance to realize what had happened. Reagan is beautiful, and good, and truth be told I don't deserve her either." Lancelot opened his mouth to argue but the words would not come. Tristan stepped away from the tree and Fionn swooped down gracefully to land on his outstretched arm.

"She has made her choice. Now you have to make yours." Tristan ambled past him and Lancelot stood there staring at his retreating back. He'd surrendered Reagan to him before Lancelot had the chance to realize it.

"The storm is here." Tristan tossed over his shoulder seconds before the heavens opened up and a deluge of cold rain pounded down on the foul-minded knight, soaking quickly through his clothes.

Soon, Lancelot found himself back at the tent, completely drenched, his wet, limp hair hanging in his eyes, his tunic and undershirt plastered to his chest, and his boots covered in mud. Reagan would not be happy that he had tracked it inside, he thought idly.

He stood there staring at her while she slept fitfully on her small bed. Her shirt wrapped around her slender form, the thin material hiding nothing from him even in the darkness. He wanted to possess her with a fierceness that startled him, to feel her beneath him, over him, on him, yet something made him hesitate, something about her made him cautious.

Were not for this yawning void of mistrust that stood between them, he would have fallen on her like a half-starved man, her virginity be damned. Yet he did not move, instead, he stood there dripping like an immobile imbecile unable to do nothing but watch her. It was if he could not help himself where she was concerned. It was like an illness, this feeling Lancelot had for her, a feeling he feared he could never be cured of and it scared the hell out of him.

Reagan was no great beauty; she was not some skilled and clever woman of experience. She was good and brave and unsullied by life. Reagan was everything he wasn't and it was this realization that made him hesitate. Lancelot loomed over her in the darkness like some letch watching as she awoke blinking at him in shock.

He expected her to scream, to be frightened. He did not expect her to open her arms for him, to wrap herself around him. It was this silent unexpected welcome, this quiet acceptance of him that shook him and when he fell into her arms he realized that Tristan was right: He had been a fool.

--

Reagan should have been afraid, but she wasn't. Had it been any other man she would have been terrified. And when Lancelot moved sinuously into her embrace, she felt a shudder of delight move through his powerful body. Was this real? She wondered. Was he really here? Or was she still dreaming?

She grabbed at him with eager hands, pulling on his wet clothes, clumsy and unsure of herself until she heard him laugh gently into her ear, the sound making her shiver. He helped her with his tunic, pulling it over his head fluidly. The fabric made a wet slapping sound when it hit the floor. Reagan moved her body to accommodate his larger frame instinctively cradling Lancelot's hips between her legs. The hem of her tunic rode up her hips and she felt her breath catch in her throat as she realized that she wore no undergarments and could feel the leather of his breeches press against her intimately. It should have shocked her but it didn't.

His mouth moved over hers in deep luscious strokes, stealing her breath and making her heart race. Reagan clutched at his bare shoulders, thrilled at the feel of his warm skin. Her hands traced down his back, skimming over raised and puckered scars that were too numerous to count. She heard him groan at the tentative caress and he reached for her shirt, pulling it off her so quickly that she barely had time to register what had happened until the touch of the cool night air hit her skin. Feeling herself blush all over at the realization that she was naked, he gazed down at her, perplexed, catching her off guard with the look before she realized he was staring at her bindings.

Reagan bit her lip as he ran a curious hand over her artificially flattened chest, his expression unfathomable. Before she knew what was happening next she caught the flash of a blade in the darkness. Momentarily frightened, she pushed at him as he held her down and Lancelot sliced through her bindings so quickly she only had seconds to blink, shocked that the cool blade slid over her skin deftly without harming her.

Reagan tried to catch her breath to recover from her fright, but found it was almost impossible as Lancelot slowly set the dagger aside and began to peel away the now torn strips of linen. When she was exposed entirely to his gaze, he bit off an oath in a language she didn't recognize and Reagan felt her face go scarlet. Had she done something wrong? Immediately self-conscious, she moved to cover herself but he grabbed at her hands and pinned them beside her.

His eyes locked with hers in the darkness and she could not look away. He had never looked at her that way before. "Never hide yourself from me again." His deep beautiful voice rolled over her and she felt herself nod unable to speak.

It was that voice that had drawn her to him, that deep resonant tone that made her fall in love with him. Not his good looks, his charm, his sharp intelligence, but his voice that made her heart race. It was his voice that made her shiver with desire and longing and when spoke to her like that it was practically her undoing.

He kissed her as if he were a dying man and she was the only thing that could save him. Reagan was unfamiliar with such kisses and she responded purely on instinct, but the way her body moved against his seemed to please him greatly. Lancelot clutched at her tightly, the skin to skin contact making her gasp sharply; the savage strength of his embrace startling her.

His mouth sought her throat, finding the fragile pulse that beat wildly there and pressing his lips to it and running his tongue over it until she whimpered. She reached for his face, ran her fingers along his jaw, and felt the smooth-rough texture if his beard against her palms, delighting in it for a moment before bringing his mouth to hers once again. She could kiss him forever if he allowed it; she was new at this but she hoped her enthusiasm overshadowed her inexperience.

Reagan rose to press herself more tightly against him. Everywhere they touched she ached. She wanted to feel him, all of him. Startled by these new sensations, she buried her face in his neck and breathed deeply, smelling the fragrance of rain-soaked earth, pine, and Lancelot.

Pleasure overwhelmed her in the darkness and the feel of him muddled her senses. It was as if he were everywhere at once, his clever hands shaping her breasts, moving down the flat planes of her stomach and over her hipbones before caressing her thighs almost reverently. She heard him growl low within his chest as he ran his hands down the length of her legs before wrapping them tightly around his waist. Reagan was aware that sometime earlier he had managed to finish undressing himself without her knowledge and then something large, hot, and demanding nudged the tender flesh between her thighs.

Reagan cried out against his mouth in alarm. The sound made him stop and he tore his mouth from hers. He held her face in his hands and stared down at her. She licked her swollen lips, biting them as she tensed for an invasion that never came.

"Would you refuse me, my lady? Shall I beg your pardon and take my leave?" His lips moved against hers lightly as he spoke, and Reagan barely registered the loaded question. For a quick second anger flashed bright within her. He was throwing her faith in him back at her, forcing her to make the decision of whether or not they should move forward. Reagan dug her nails into his shoulders and Lancelot grunted.

She gripped him tighter with her legs. Her pride be damned, he was not going to stop now.

"Stay, my lord," she whispered, and his answering groan drowned her sharp cry of pain as he entered her. Reagan writhed beneath him, completely unprepared for the fulsome weight of him inside her untried body. Lancelot went still above her, grabbing onto her hips, his large fingers biting into her flesh, forcing her to cease her erratic movements beneath him. Tears of pain pricked at edge of her eyes as she whimpered in dismay and fought to move away from him.

"Be still," he murmured. "It will get better, I promise you." Lancelot proved to be a man of his word, and soon enough Reagan found that the pain melted slowly away into a throbbing ache that left her wanting something more. She moved her hips experimentally and his sharp gasp rang trough the tent. It wasn't long before Reagan found herself caught up in unfamiliar, heady sensations that left her gasping, gripping onto him as if he were a lifeline. She was afraid of what she was feeling, afraid of what she found herself needing. He tensed above her, his breathing becoming erratic and the movements of his hips more demanding before he cried out, burying his face in the crook of her neck before collapsing on top of her.

Reagan lay there stunned for a moment; his full weight on her made it difficult to breathe. Her legs felt like jelly as she slowly unwound herself from him. She trembled uncontrollably and it would have been worse had he not been there to anchor her to the bed. Their sweaty skin stuck together and it was awkward at first as he rolled to the edge of the bed and disentangled himself from her.

She felt acutely bereft as he sat up, turning away from her. She reached out to touch his back, to run her fingers over his skin, but he tensed and moved away before she had the chance. Reagan curled her fingers into her palm and waited. For a long moment neither one of them spoke and as the warm glow of desire faded, something much colder and unwelcome settled between them.

She watched as he pulled on his breeches and boots and then reached for a clean tunic; he dressed as if she were not there. The realization that he was going to abandon her made her stomach twist painfully; suddenly it was incredibly difficult to swallow.

Lancelot stood there fidgeting with the laces on his tunic while she looked at him and it made Reagan wonder if all of the stories she'd heard about him were true. Was she to become just another of his conquests? Had she been another one of those unfortunate naive souls to be used by him and then so quickly cast aside?

Had she not been ready so many hours earlier to believe whole-heartedly that he was different than the rumours claimed?

Now, as she watched him run a shaking hand through his hair she had to force herself to think differently. It was at that moment that Reagan made herself take responsibility for her part in what had happened. She had welcomed him to her bed, had given herself to him freely. She'd been the one to tell him to stay.

It was as if she had aged a decade overnight.

Lancelot reached for the half-empty pitcher of ale left over from supper and removed himself from the tent with out so much as word to her. Reagan sat up and wrapped the furs around herself, trying to seal out the chill settling over her.

What did she expect? She thought bitterly. Lovemaking followed by declarations of undying love? She was not such a fool to believe that would ever happen.

Wretchedly, she felt a telling wetness on her cheeks and realized she'd been crying without even knowing it. Holding her face in her hands, hot thick tears of disappointment and anger tumbled from her eyes and she was helpless to stop them.

--

The rain had stopped. Sometime earlier the storm had ceased but he had not noticed it. The camp was dark and damp and the air was cold. The atmosphere settled over him like a black shroud. Walking slowly toward the clearing, he collapsed into a great heap on the wet ground mindless of the mud.

If Reagan had been a fool to cast aside the gauntlet of her denial, he had been and even bigger fool to take it up. She had wooed him with nothing more than the welcoming sounds of her soft sighs and he had no idea what possessed him to touch her in all manner sacred and profane that a man could touch a woman.

Lancelot took a deep drink from the pitcher; the sharp taste of the ale did nothing to quench his thirst. How in the name of the gods was he to keep her safe if the scent of her still lingered on him? How was he to keep himself from her if this craving he had for her could not be sated?

He suspected darkly that no amount of drink would ever erase her from his memory. Had he not acted purely in her interest and left her as he did, he would have taken her again and next time he would not have been so gentle or able to control himself. This unnatural vulnerability and need he felt toward her disgusted him.

He downed the rest of the ale in a few great swallows, feeling the alcohol settle into his limbs. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand only to find it shaking. He clenched his fingers into a tight fist and stared up at a surprisingly beautiful starlight sky.

As he looked at those cold sparkling orbs, trying to still the thundering of his heart, the sound of Reagan's quiet weeping floated toward him and he hated himself even more for causing her pain. If it there was one thing Lancelot could not abide it was a woman's tears, and Reagan's he was sure would be the death of him.

AN: **See, I said you'd hate me for this chapter. I'm am so incredibly nervous to post this chapter as it is pivotal in their overall relationship and Lancelot mucks the entire thing up just by being himself. Just know that not everything will be doom and gloom angst between them, they have to grow and accept each other before they can move forward. Right now they barely trust one another. On a happier note: Look for some super cute Galahad and Ivy interaction in Chapter 17 and more intense scenes between Lance and Reagan. **

**I just want to mention that my beta team is the absolute best! I can't tell you how much of a difference they make to this story, were it not for them Eternal Knight would not be nearly as legible (seriously). Thanks Guys! Also I just wanted to mention I couldn't get the page breaks to work in Safari or Firefox so please excuse the tiny little lines between POVs.  
**


	17. Chapter 17

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story; I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**I had hoped to deliver this difficult (dramatic) chapter to you by the Christmas holidays. Alas, given my schedule, it was not possible. I do hope that this is considered better late than never :) **

**Huge thanks to the beta team, Leigh, Jo and Murt. I realize the files I send you to work with are not all that easy to read, for you to decipher my pros and adjust them with such ease and flare, leads me to believe you are the goddesses of editing! I love you guys-seriously!**

**For Pia, I wish I could have posted this for you as a birthday present on time. As one of my dearest fans and Internet friends this one is for you.**

"_Every woman is wrong until she cries, and then she is right, instantly."_ **Thomas C. Halliburton**

Chapter 17

Ivy awoke that morning to a big, gentle hand stroking her hair. She opened her bleary eyes with difficulty and lifted her head from her folded arms to gaze wonderingly into a pair of handsome grey eyes.

"Finally, she wakes." Galahad said, smiling brightly at her, and Ivy realized with no small amount of mortification that she'd fallen asleep in her chair. Sometime during the night she'd managed to land half-on, half-off Galahad's cot, her head dangerously close to his chest. She felt herself blush as realization dawned and the last remnants of sleep faded from her eyes.

"Apologies, my lord." She said, her voice husky with sleep. Clearing her throat, she rubbed her sore neck, stretched and made to move away before she could further embarrass herself when he quickly grabbed for her hand. The movement cost him dearly and she watched as a grimace of pain crossed his features.

"Please be mindful of your wound." Ivy said, startled, reaching for his hand to stop his attempt to rise. Galahad wove his fingers through hers as he settled back once more and Ivy found herself staring at their entwined fingers, a strange fluttery feeling settling in her stomach at the sight Galahad grinned at her, and it was a very self-satisfied grin if she could discern it correctly.

"You seem to be feeling better." She added dubiously.

"I think Arthur would deem it a miraculous recovery." He replied, his own voice gruff with lack of use.

"Miraculous?" she scoffed. "You nearly died." His grin turned even wider and Ivy could not believe he was so amused by his brush with death. She certainly had not been, she thought, thinking of her sleepless nights, the constant worry, the tears she'd shed over him.

"Did you know your hair smells like Sweetbriar and you have an adorable snoring habit?" the young knight asked mischievously.

Ivy felt a bright red blush creep up her face and she looked away. He had regained consciousness mere hours earlier and here he was baiting her as if he'd never been gravely wounded. Strange, impossible, foolish man!

"I do not snore!" she snapped, unable to think of something better to say. Galahad laughed, the throaty sound was out of place in the quiet tent.

"You snore. Believe me, my lady, you snore." He said with a grin that faltered somewhat when she untangled their fingers and slid her hand from his grasp.

"Your dressings need to be changed and you need to try to eat something." She said a bit too sharply. Galahad blinked at the quick change in her tone and demeanor and Ivy didn't waste any more time.

She reached for his bandaged shoulder, trying to be gentle and failing miserably, the trembling of her hands giving more away than she intended. When the wound was revealed, and Galahad deliberately stared at her face, Ivy tried to keep her expression neutral, difficult though it was.

"Yes, well…" She cleared her throat. "It's going to take time to heal."

"That bad, eh?" Somehow the question irked Ivy more than it should have.

"You almost _died_. Isn't that enough?" She snapped before she could stop herself. Ivy removed herself from his bedside before Galahad had a chance to stutter a shocked reply. She busied herself with gathering fresh bandages and making sure she had the proper salves before she returned, trying not to think how poorly she was behaving at the moment.

Shoving a stray copper tendril of hair behind her ear in frustration, she finally allowed her gaze to settle on his once again.

Gone was the mirth his eyes had held previously. Now they appeared as clear as glass and held a serious stillness in them that told her he knew exactly how grave his situation had been. He had needed no harsh reminder from her. She completed her task well, dressing and washing the horrid-looking shoulder wound as best she could.

Ivy then helped him to awkwardly slide a clean worn tunic over his head and to settle back down as painlessly as she could. When she was done she made to move away again, knowing she had the others still to check on.

Ivy stopped only when he reached for her one last time, his hand wrapping around her wrist in a sure firm grasp, tugging her back to him. She turned around at the touch, regarding him with a questioning glance.

"Thank you." He said simply.

"For what?" Ivy asked, genuinely confused. She was only doing her duty as a healer; she needed no thanks for that.

"For caring. It… it gives me hope." Galahad finished somewhat stiltedly; his long lashes swept downward, shielding his gaze from her almost shyly. Suddenly it felt as if she had a large lump lodged in her throat. Finding it very difficult to swallow, she nodded, feeling at a complete loss for words.

"Try to sleep." She offered, for a lack of anything better to say and he released his vice-like grip on her wrist. Ivy forced herself to turn away from him and stoke the burning coals of the brazier. Trying her best not to dwell on memory of his fingers on her skin, she had just started her rounds when Reagan came stumbling into her tent, practically tripping over her own two feet in the process.

"I'm sorry I'm so late, Ivy, I...I...overslept." She said, an obvious lie if Ivy could read the telltale signs correctly, for as long as she'd known Reagan the girl had never been late for anything. Her fey features were bitter, a pallor of ill sleep and red-rimmed eyes set her in an unfavorable light. There was also a wildness in her eyes, Ivy noted, that did not bode well for anyone, least of all the girl in question.

She looked possessed of some strange illness that might burn both her and anyone else she came into contact with to ashes.

"What shall I start on first?" Reagan asked a bit too brightly, her smile brittle. Not quite sure how to handle the uncertain state of her assistant, Ivy thought it best to have her fetch fresh water. When the task was completed-more slowly and wet than usual-Ivy knew something was terribly amiss.

Not quite sure of what exactly to do with the girl, Ivy did know that sending her away for the day would only give Reagan time to dwell on whatever it was that troubled her. In a desperate attempt to find a task that wouldn't be over taxing, Ivy remembered she needed her small stores of herbs sorted.

"Reagan, could you try to organize my herbs for me?" She asked in an overly sweet tone, not surprised when that decision turned out to be a very bad one.

Reagan jumped to the task almost enthusiastically; that lasted until she dropped a very large and very full jar, its contents spilling on the ground in a resounding crash, which drew unwanted attention her way.

Galahad's eyes flew open at the sound of breaking clay, his doze unkindly interrupted, and his gaze swiveling to Reagan on bended knee trying her best to clean the recent mess she'd made. Watching her struggle, Ivy took pity on the poor unsettled girl, gathered her skirts in one hand and moved quickly to her side.

Ivy reached for one of the pieces of broken clay at the same time Reagan did and used it as an excuse to clasp the girl's hand with her own briefly. She gave it a reassuring squeeze and was dismayed when Reagan looked ready to burst into tears at the touch.

Ivy immediately dropped her friend's hand and continued to help her pick up the remains of what had been her Turmeric jar.

She felt Galahad's curious stares from across the tent, and when he motioned for her Ivy went to him without a second thought, leaving Reagan to the task of cleaning up the rest of the mess. Kneeling by the side of his bed, she pretended to inspect his dressings.

"Do you think they've finally…_settled_ their differences?" He asked under his breath, making a rude hand gesture, which Ivy slapped away indignantly.

"How long have you known about Reagan?" She asked a bit too sharply. It was hard for her to keep quiet when she'd had no idea Galahad knew Reagan's true identity as well.

"Since Lancelot started sniffing around her weeks ago. It always amazed me that some thought she resembled a boy. Even Lancelot seemed quiet convinced of her ridiculous disguise. It was not my place to tell him what I suspected, though I thought him a right idiot for calling her 'boy' all the time. Any man with two eyes can tell she's a girl." He finished with a slight sneer and Ivy smiled at his matter-of-fact tone, which seemed so unlike him.

"Do you think he's hurt her in some way?" she whispered back. "Done something foolish to make her act like this?" As he nodded at her, Ivy wondered what could have happened. As far as she knew Lancelot was still unaware his squire was a female and all the better for Reagan, she thought.

"Yes, I dare say he has done something to her. Though if I know him well enough it doesn't take a scholar to figure out what that might be," he finished grimly.

"Oh dear." Ivy replied gathering her thick hair and pulling it over her shoulder anxiously. Perhaps Lancelot _did_ know his squire was a girl. It wasn't as if she didn't respect the first knight, she did, but the way he treated women left much to be desired.

If anything, she could only suspect that Lancelot had probably turned every edge Reagan had to his advantage and used it to somehow steer the girl into his bed. Knowing how Reagan felt about her commander, Ivy had little doubt that Reagan had gone unwillingly.

Steeling herself for a conversation she had not prepared herself to have, Ivy slowly stood and walked toward Reagan. The poor girl was obviously shaken and was acting very much unlike herself.

Moving to the other side of the working table were Reagan now stood, Ivy watched as she swiped at her nose with the back of her hand and raised an unsure blue gaze toward her at her approach.

"I'm sorry about the jar, Ivy, I promise to replace it upon our return, as well as the turmeric."

Ivy waved away her offer. "I don't give a fig about that jar, Reagan," she said as gently as possible, trying her best to gain her friend's unflustered attention.

"Reagan," Ivy said softly lest one of the other patients heard their conversation. "If you're ever in need of a particular concoction, I have some here at my disposal." She was not surprised when the girl looked at her in complete confusion, her pert little nose wrinkling.

"I know I'm a bit clumsier than usual Ivy, but I think I should be fine, thank you." Reagan said as she nervously fidgeted with a few stray bowls, stacking them needlessly.

"No, I don't think you understand what I offer. This particular herb, it's to help prevent conception." At the word Reagan's startled gaze met hers, her large blue eyes looking almost comical in her red face.

"Don't look so shocked, Reagan. You'd hardly be the first woman to take it and I can guarantee you won't be the last." Ivy chastised lightly with a small wry smile. She watched as her friend's throat worked obviously struggling with a reply.

"You don't have to say yes or no. I'll pack some for you and you can take it at your discretion. Though if you do decide to take it, you must do so between now and the following sunrise or else it will not work." Ivy was pleased when the girl nodded, apparently giving her offer some serious thought.

"Thank you, Ivy." Reagan replied tightly, clearly embarrassed.

"Think nothing of it, many women back at the wall frequently request it from me. I think they too realize there are enough fatherless curly-haired brats running around." Ivy immediately regretted saying that as Reagan's face turned pale and she feared the girl would faint.

"Reagan!" Galahad's cheery voice called out snapping Reagan out of whatever mental anguish she might be feeling. "Go and fetch Finn for me would you? I've been quite anxious to see what he's been up to." Reagan nodded and left quickly. Ivy had to guess she was more relieved to be given the task than stand there dwelling on their recent topic of conversation.

Ivy smiled at Galahad, thankful he'd been so quick to give Reagan a task she was able to handle without breaking something or bursting into tears. The other three men were sleeping soundly and Ivy suspected Galahad had had enough sleep for a while as he grinned at her from his cot, eyes sparkling in their amusement.

"See, I told you, they _did_ settle their differences." Making the rude hand gesture again, which caused Ivy to blush. _Silly, foolish man!_ She thought, smothering her grin behind her hand. She enjoyed the relative stillness of the tent, happy to have his intent gaze follow her movements while she cleaned.

Ivy realized as she resumed her place by his bedside that she was content for the first time in memory to simply _be_.

* * *

It was late into the evening when Reagan finally managed to gather the courage to go back to her tent. She had supped with Ivy, Galahad and Finn and despite her worries she had to concede it had been a most pleasant supper. She was so relieved that Galahad was out of danger, his fever had broken sometime during the night and Ivy had been there to see to it that he was comfortable.

Ivy had even managed to coax him into eating a bit of broth-soaked bread, not that Galahad needed much coaxing from Ivy.

Just watching the pair made Reagan realize that although she had been envious of Ivy's beauty, it had been Galahad's obvious and painfully apparent adoration that Reagan herself longed for.

She wanted to be adored and loved, no questions asked and, even more, accepted for who she was. Yet, after the events of last night, that kind of love seemed incredibly far out of her reach. It didn't help that she knew she'd made her own bed. Lying in it, however, was a bitter tonic to swallow.

Reagan approached the tent and hesitated, taking note of the warm glow from within. That meant that Lancelot was in residence, as she never left candles burning unattended. Taking a deep breath, she pushed aside the tent flap and quietly crossed the threshold.

She should have been better prepared for what awaited her, but she suspected if she had lived a thousand lifetimes it still wouldn't have prepared her for the sight of him.

Reagan wanted to be on the other side of the world from the man before her, and at the same time her starved senses pulled him in greedily. Lancelot sat at his desk, a goblet of wine close at hand, the low burning candles caressing the angles of his face. The black tunic he was wearing was open at the throat, exposing the satiny smooth skin of his chest as the material clung to his broad shoulders. His dark curls hung over his eyes and her fingers itched to push them aside.

Lancelot's head was bent over a scroll and she could tell he was having trouble making out the words by the crease of concentration between his brows. The sheer size and presence of him paralyzed her with need.

She wanted to press her lips to the exposed skin of his throat, bury her fingers in his curls, wanted him to push her back onto the bed and ruin her all over again.

Feeling herself flush with shame at her thoughts she squeezed her eyes shut and stiffly made her way over to the washbasin, trying desperately to concentrate on the mundane task of washing her face and hands. The feel of the cool water did nothing to still the pounding of her heart.

"Did you have supper?" She heard him ask, felt his eyes on her, but she did not turn around.

"I have no wish to make pointless conversation with you, my lord," Reagan snapped, surprised at the vehemence in her voice.

"Would you like a glass of wine, or perhaps-?"

"I have everything I need, thank you, my lord." She interrupted, turning around and feeling that damnable flush that wouldn't stop as he gazed at her steadily.

"I would like to speak to you-"

"That's quite alright," Reagan replied, managing to sound composed. "There is no need to explain anything." She had hoped that would be the end of it, but as she watched him press his lips into a fine irritated line she knew it wasn't.

"Damn it woman, stop interrupting me!" Lancelot snapped, his voice rising. Reagan glared at him; crossing her arms over her chest she waited for him to say what he wanted to say despite the fact that she did not want to hear a word of it.

She felt like a petulant child, knew she was acting like one, but she didn't care. She watched him rein in his temper as he took a deep breath and a drink of wine before looking back at her again.

"Will you please come and sit?" He motioned to the other chair opposite him. Reagan conceded that since he had asked her so nicely, she could grant him this one favor. She sat gingerly on the stool, unable to hide an uncomfortable grimace. As this did not go unnoticed by Lancelot, she flushed brightly once more, and, incapable of holding his gaze, she looked away.

She heard him pour her a goblet of wine and pass it toward her. Reagan ignored his offering.

"You wished to speak to me, my lord?" Looking back at him with wary eyes, she asked quietly, as it was apparent he was struggling to find a way to begin the conversation.

"Yes, I had wanted to say that when we return to the wall, I will have you placed under Arthur's protection. You will need no longer fear Rullus or what ever power you believe he holds over you. When you return you will be removed from the stables and given a position in the healing rooms if it should suit you. I will speak to Dagonet on your behalf. Thirdly, you will not be staying in the male servants' quarters any longer. I will see to it personally that you have your own rooms now--how you managed to go unnoticed for so long living there I cannot understand. Perhaps if you would wish it I could even have a few dresses made for you." He finished giving her a crooked incredulous smile.

Reagan was not amused.

"That is all very good and kind of you, my lord, to be making plans for me without my consent." She said resentfully.

"I see this does not please you." He said flatly.

"You are correct. I have a plan, which I would very much like to stick to. I can't help but point it out that I've made it this far on my own without your aid and I will continue to do so. Thank you for your concern, but now I must retire for I am dreadfully tired." She made to move away but what he said next stopped her.

"I only wish to protect you, Reagan. It was never my intention to insult you." Reagan looked back at him feeling a tightness in her chest that was becoming all too familiar to her. Her own rooms, a different job, dresses made just for her; while she understood he thought these things would be desirable to her, Reagan knew that he was completely blind to the other side of it.

With her sudden and abrupt change in status back at the wall, the shield of her disguise would be useless, and to make matters even worse she would be considered a kept woman. _His_ kept woman.

And what would happen to her when he tired of her? It was an inevitable conclusion. He had warned her of it even last night. As awful as the situation made her feel, Reagan knew he was trying to please her in some roundabout way.

Yet, there was nothing pleasing about the way Lancelot was going about making plans for her life without at least asking her what she preferred to do.

She also had a feeling he was using this highhanded offer of protection as a way to ease his conscience and she would not stand for it.

"You're saying you wish to protect me? How very _noble_ of you." she replied with derision. "Forgive me if I find your brand of protection less than desirable." She hoped the hypocrisy of his offering was apparent and watched gladly as his dark eyes narrowed at the obvious insult.

"Let me remind you lady, that you were the one who welcomed me to your bed last night and not once did you complain," he bit off sharply. She ground her teeth together amazed once again at his audacity. _Patronizing, arrogant knight!_

"I don't remember asking for a reminder, my lord. But now that you have brought up the topic I would like to ask if there are any more _services_ you would be requiring from me as payment for our bargain?" Lancelot stared at her, his fingers going lax around the stem of his wine goblet.

Reagan could have sworn she'd touched a nerve or at least enticed him into bringing the heavy discomfiture between them out into the open. She'd much rather have them hash it out verbally here and now, than let it sit brewing and stewing between them until it became too much for her to bear.

He lowered his gaze, idly tracing a line of wood grain on the table. His eyes met hers again and she was startled by the abrupt change in him. Lancelot braced himself on the table with both arms and leaned in closer to her, a treacherous smile pulling on the edges of his beautiful mouth. Reagan felt her heart lurch at the shamelessly sensual look.

"I had hoped to spare us this awkwardness, but let me assure you, lady, that you have sufficient credit on account with me. I have no wish to pretend that last night was a mistake. I saw an opportunity and I took it. You are a beautiful girl, Reagan, and it is no small wonder I am not the only man in your acquaintance who is interested in you. Should you seek to find another lover I will not stand in your way, and I would hope that you would pay me the same respect."

Reagan sucked in a breath and it felt as if she had breathed in sand. Swallowing with difficulty she watched as he reached for his wine once more, her eyes falling on a muscle ticking beneath his clenched jaw, a muscle that made a mockery of his easy grin and a lie out of every word that came from his mouth. "I think that you would agree that in the end we both got what we wanted," he continued.

She blinked, horrified to feel the burn of tears. Reagan finally reached for her goblet of wine, the thick ruby liquid sliding down her tight throat with surprising ease.

"Did you?" She asked, licking her parched lips, those same lips he had kissed so passionately the night before, the fresh memory making her insides twist in longing.

"Did I what?" he asked, pretending not to understand her question.

"Did you get what you wanted?" Reagan asked, thankful that her voice didn't waver. "Is this what you really want? Or is it something you believe you _deserve_?" He drained his goblet, reached for the pitcher, and once more filled first his glass and then hers, hesitating purposely, not meeting her gaze.

"What are you afraid of, Lancelot?" She asked, calling him by his given name for the first time. His gaze flickered to hers, startled. "Why do you let all of those women into your bed and not your heart? So that you can be the one to walk away first, just as you did to me last night?" She did not know what possessed her to ask him such a probing question but it seemed as if she could not stop herself.

Reagan wanted to understand why he was doing this, why he felt the need to say such callous things to her.

He tensed and removed himself from the desk, standing so quickly he overturned his chair. He moved away from her, running a hand through his hair and turning back only to pin her with a narrowed gaze.

"Do not pretend to know me, Reagan. Because if you did you would realize I am perfectly capable of making love to you without actually loving you."

Pain whipped through her, bright and sharp. His words only confirmed what she had refused to see. She was no different than all of those other women he had seduced, those poor unfortunate women who had traded their hearts and their self-respect for a night of pleasure in his arms.

Reagan had fallen beneath his spell so easily- so foolishly-and at that moment she didn't know who she hated more: him or herself.

She dejectedly watched him begin to pace in front of the brazier, trying to ignore her presence. She wondered why he looked so agitated, so completely on edge. Something about the way he was acting didn't sit right with her and it was enough to pique her curiosity, make her think he was purposely trying to push her away.

Reagan finished her goblet shakily, the wine giving her a false sense of bravery. She steadily pushed herself off her chair and approached him slowly as if he were a wild animal about to scurry off at her slightest provocation.

"You say that I don't know you," she began, and he stopped pacing, holding her gaze for a moment before his eyes darted to the flames of the fire. "Has it ever occurred to you, my lord, that you don't know me either?" He did not answer her, just continued to stare at the flames.

His posture was stiff and remote yet Reagan knew he registered every one of her words.

"I want to thank you for being so forthright with me tonight. Had you not, I would have continued to think that last night was something _more_ than paying for my part of the bargain we struck." She crossed her arms over her chest as he continued to pretend to ignore her.

"I should be thankful for your protection from Rullus. I should be thankful for the fact that you didn't thrust me back into his waiting arms after you discovered my deceit and believe me, I am." Reagan added, looking up into his face as his expression turned stony, watching him close himself off to her further.

"It does make me wonder though, my lord, that while you are busy protecting me from Rullus, who will protect me from you?" She watched in satisfaction as her words hit their mark. He glowered at her and she felt ensnared beneath his gaze. She took an instinctive step backward; perhaps she had overstepped her bounds with him but at the moment she hurt too much to even care.

"That is a very good question, squire." His voice slid over her like black velvet and Reagan closed her eyes briefly, for only a second. Startled when she felt the unexpected caress of his fingers on her neck, she jumped as his rough calloused palm slid against her skin. His fingers tangled in her short hair, pulling her irrevocably closer to him until she could feel the heat from his body and smell the wine on his breath, and her eyes flew open.

His nearness was almost too much for her to bear and she tried to pull herself out of his grasp, yet he held on to her tightly, one arm going around her waist while his other hand tightened its grip on her hair until her eyes stung. Reagan's hands came up and she pushed on his chest, yet he remained immobile. The look in his eyes was beyond anything she was familiar with and she felt herself flinch under his harsh scrutiny. Perhaps he was right all along-- perhaps she didn't know him at all.

Lancelot leaned in closer to her until his lips barely brushed hers and Reagan felt her knees give way. If only he would kiss her, if only he would let her touch him, perhaps she could reach the man who had made love to her last night. Find that same gentle, passionate man she had fallen in love with these past weeks.

"You would do well, Reagan, to stay away from me. I have nothing to offer you," he said with such conviction that she felt he truly believed what he was saying. A stray tear leaked out of the corner of her eye and she felt him catch the moisture with his thumb, wiping it away with a gentleness that betrayed his earlier actions.

"That's not true." Reagan replied tremulously, curling her fingers into the front of his tunic trying in any way that she could to hang on to him. "You have yourself." She felt rather than heard him sigh at her words, and she finally took the initiative, rising on her toes to press her lips to his, trying to show him without words how much she loved him.

A mistake, it turned out, as the kiss quickly raged out of control, desire climbing high and wild between them and leaving no room for reason. His tongue searched her mouth in primitive hunger and Reagan pressed herself against him closer, harder, whimpering as he began to kiss her neck, her head tipped back to give him better access. She wanted to feel his skin, wanted to feel his muscles bunch and tense beneath her hands. Oh god, how she wanted him, how she loved him.

Suddenly he grabbed her shoulders and forcefully pushed her away from him. Reagan staggered backwards clumsily, reeling from the abrupt separation from him. She blinked at Lancelot dazedly, as a confused silence settled between them and they each tried to regain their equilibrium.

"This cannot happen again. Above all else you are still my squire and I am sworn to protect you." At his words a surge of anger rose within her. Reagan realized that this was an impossible situation.

She refused to believe that she was just some lovesick fool that could not see logic where this man was concerned. She knew there was a reason he held himself back from her, knew there was some twisted justification as to he why refused to let himself trust her despite everything. Reagan also knew that she deserved more trust from him than he was willing to give.

"I never believed you to be a coward!" she snapped, unable to stop the words. Immediately she regretted saying them but she refused to take them back, her anger overriding any other emotion she was feeling.

He said nothing, just set his jaw and nodded once as if in complete agreement. Reagan stood there fuming, biting her tongue lest she say something else she would come to regret later, and was not surprised when he turned away from her and left the tent just as he had the previous night.

Only this time it was different: last night he had taken her heart with him when he'd left; tonight he had taken a piece of her soul, and it was something she was not ready to surrender willingly.

Clenching her fists tightly Reagan took a deep breath, suppressed the urge to throw something breakable and vowed that it would be the absolute last time she would ever allow him to walk away from her.

**AN: All right! Before you start to hate Lancelot let me say that ... Chapter 18 is finished, and as my one beta Murt commented: _Lancelot isn't a complete monster_- and well, she's right. Please bare with me and my betas as I say that things are not always as they seem in this story. Chapter 18 was a pleasure to write and Reagan really begins to come into her own while showing off her fighting skillz (yes, with a 'z' because they are laughable). It's an action packed chapter that is a turning point for the plot. However, I do hope that chapter 17 doesn't disappoint, you have no idea how many drafts of it there were :)**

**Until 18! Happy Holidays! **

**~S**


	18. Chapter 18

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story; I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**Once again, I have to thank the beta team for this one. It was a doozy, but it reads all the better for their efforts! Thank you ladies!**

**HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!**

**For Angel of the Night Watchers and Cricket 05, because you've both stuck with me from the beginning, I also think you'll both appreciate this chapter :) **

"_She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness."_ **Oscar Wilde**

Chapter 18

To say that Lancelot was in a foul mood was an understatement. The soldiers of the camp learned to stay out of his way when he barked an order; jumping at his command and obeying without a second thought. It was best to get to the task quickly and pack as fast and as much as they could, the older and wiser men in the ranks feared their commander might just take his nasty temper out on some poor undeserving soul for simply looking at the man cross-eyed.

Lancelot was not as oblivious to the tensions that ran through the camp as he pretended to be. He also knew that he was a major factor in those tensions, yet he was too wrapped up in his own concerns and priorities to worry much about shouting at an idiotic young solider for spilling ale on his boots. There were much more pressing thoughts to concern himself with.

One of those was how he was going to manage the two full days of traveling while trying to transport the wounded safely, his brother-in-arms among them.

While Galahad looked better and brighter since his fever had broken, Reagan and Ivy had hovered over the knight as if he might succumb to a second bout of illness at any time and Galahad did not bother to hide how he relished the company. It made Lancelot sick to watch the closeness between them, despite the overwhelming relief he had felt when he realized his friend was finally out of danger. The two women made sure that Galahad and the rest of the wounded were resting as comfortably as they could be in one of the larger wagons, and once they were ready they set off.

The caravan moved slowly and laboriously through the valley, Tristan rode well ahead of them to scout the open roads while Lancelot led, and the pace was enough to make any man restless in the saddle.

He grabbed onto Malachi's reins, gripping the leather straps so tightly they bit into his palms. When the stallion jerked his head in an obvious plea for his master to loosen his grip, Lancelot realized there was no sense in torturing the poor horse or himself any longer, and eased his fingers on the reins as he stole a covert glance over his shoulder.

Reagan walked alongside the sick wagon, and as the bright afternoon sun hung overhead, she raised a hand over her eyes to shield them from its bright rays. Her stride was swift and strong and he noted that she kept the pace easily as she chose quite stubbornly to walk as opposed to ride.

She met his gaze evenly but there was something in it Lancelot had not counted on. It was one thing to have Reagan gaze at him with open longing in her eyes, but it was quite another to have her look at him with icy indifference and it bothered him very deeply.

Though, it seemed that, lately, everything she did bothered him in one way or another.

Since their argument so many days ago, Reagan had done nothing but treat him with the same polite respect she did Tristan and Galahad. She was friendly and attentive when he needed her to be and she did everything he had asked her to do with out arguing.

And it drove Lancelot insane.

She no longer tried to defy him at every turn, no longer tried to gain his attention in some outlandish manner, and the last tunic he'd given her to mend--much to his relief and dismay--had been returned to him clean and folded crisply, sans embellishments. He had stared at that plain, perfectly mended tunic and felt an inexplicable sense of loss that was almost unbearable.

Lancelot quickly came to realize in the days that followed up to their departure that he hated every damn well-mannered, modest, obedient thing she did.

He tore his gaze from hers and tried to focus on the road ahead, trying to listen to the familiar sounds of travel, trying without success to listen to his surroundings. _It would do no good to be distracted_, he chastised himself, downright foolish not to be aware of what lay ahead.

Alas, he sighed, it was a futile exercise. He stole one more glance at her as if he could entice her into some show of temper just by staring at her. The effort was in vain: only gaining suspicious glances from a few of his men who noticed that he was looking at his squire like a man starved.

Lancelot had no right to object to the way she was treating him, he rationalized, as it was precisely what he had wished from her. After all it was what he had been trying to accomplish all along. He finally had the obedient, respectful, presentable squire he'd been training in vain from the beginning, only to have irony slap him in the face with an iron manacle. He smiled darkly at the thought.

He closed his eyes briefly and Reagan's lovely face sat at the forefront of his mind, the memory of her soft supple body beneath his, the way she had shamelessly arched into his hands in the darkness. He bit his tongue to suppress a groan. Giving his head a slight shake as if to clear it, he blinked his eyes open.

He had made sure, quite cruelly, that he would never have her again and he knew it was for her own good. Reagan, he realized, deserved more than someone who was essentially a brute, someone who was bound to disappoint her and hurt her in one way or another.

He could not change who he was, just as the tide was unable to resist the siren's tug of the moon. He could not change, he repeated to himself, not even for her.

Reagan would see that eventually and she would come to hate him. He'd rather have her hate him than force himself to sort through the tangled web of his feelings and offer her friendship in the plainest sense. His offer of protection was one thing, but a friendship with her would be torture, not only for himself he thought bleakly, but for Reagan as well.

He breathed in sharply. These pathetic thoughts would do him no good, he realized. His actions as of late had been not of his nature. He never should have bedded Reagan. He should have left her alone as he had originally intended to do. Lancelot had no one to blame but himself for his current situation, maddening though it was.

He was glad to be heading back to the wall; at least there he could put some distance between them and in time he was sure things would return to normal, whatever that may be. Malachi tossed his head indignantly as though he could read his master's thoughts and pranced warily backward.

Something wasn't right, he thought suddenly, cursing himself for his momentary distraction. His eyes sharply focused on their surroundings, his ears opened keenly to all of the sounds around him- what little sounds there were aside from the horse's hooves and the constant turning of the wagon wheels. There was no chirping of birds in the trees, no scurrying of small animals roaming the edges of the forest around them.

It was too still. Too unnaturally quiet.

The party continued to slowly make their way forward and it was too late when Lancelot realized they were like lambs being lead to slaughter.

Feeling more the hunted than the hunter, he knew when a threat was near and the caravan was very much in danger. They'd finally tracked them. He had suspected it all along, epically after their last village inspection: a band of Saxons was close at hand. As his eyes surveyed the surrounding trees and hilltops, he raised a hand and the party came to a grinding halt.

One of his men looked at him, a question forming on his lips mere seconds before three arrows were shot out. Suddenly everyone leapt from their mounts in disarray and men scrambled for their weapons. Tristan appeared at his side and one look was all he needed. Lancelot had no time to nod, no time to bark orders. First and foremost on his mind was not the defense of the caravan as it should have been.

His first and only thought, which even surprised himself, was how to reach Reagan fast enough to protect her.

* * *

Reagan pretended not to notice the way Lancelot kept glaring at her. She pretended not to notice the fact that other people noticed and was insurmountably pleased when he was forced to look away from her by the curious stares of the other men. Let him flounder in an attempt to explain why he kept looking at his squire, she thought vindictively. It would serve him right, to be forced to defend himself and his actions where she was concerned.

"Lancelot seems to be very _preoccupied_ these days, wouldn't you agree, Ivy?" Galahad asked loudly, drawing Reagan's gaze from her commander's broad back as she peered through the slotted planks of the wagon's sides. She forced herself to walk a bit faster to keep the pace. Galahad's handsome and smiling vestige bounced before her as one of the wheels hit a hole in the road, yet his cheeky grin never faltered.

Reagan watched as Ivy knelt before him, placing a hand on his chest to brace herself against the rough road. An overly familiar gesture, Reagan noticed, as Ivy didn't touch any of the other patients in the wagon in the same manner.

"Perhaps sadistic is more the correct term than preoccupied. What would you have to say about that, Reagan?" the healer asked with more than a hint of mirth in her voice. Reagan smiled at them both from the other side of the wagon, letting her arms swing freely at her sides before giving a deliberate and careless shrug of her shoulders.

"I couldn't say, Ivy, none of his actions seem uncharacteristic to me." She replied lightly, a slight spring in her step.

"This preoccupation seems to please you greatly, Reagan. Don't you find that suspect, Ivy?" Galahad offered with no small amount of sarcasm.

Reagan opened her mouth to ask Galahad what he meant by that, when an arrow went whizzing past her ear. It was three long seconds before Reagan realized they were under attack and it was two more seconds before something slammed into her back with the force of a battering ram, knocking her to the ground and choking all of the air out of her lungs in one swift movement.

Reagan sucked in a wheezing breath with great difficulty. It took her a moment to decide whether she'd been struck down by a heard of stampeding deer or impaled by a fallen oak.

Black dots swam before her eyes and she feared she'd faint from lack of air. Her eyes blearily focused on a patch of dirt and rocks mere millimeters in front of her nose. That was until she realized that the massive object that had her pinned was in fact her commander. It was a testament to his finely honed reflexes she thought wildly, that Lancelot had managed such a maneuver without completely crushing her.

"Do. Not. Move." He whispered, his lips grazing her ear. How had he managed to move so quickly from the front of the line to reach her? What possessed him to think that forcing her to the ground and shielding her with his body was a good idea in the midst of an attack?

The beguiling warmth of his breath skated across the exposed skin of her neck and her first instinct was to squirm out from under him. He forced more of his weight on her making it practically impossible to move, while he bellowed orders to the men loud enough to make her ears ring.

Reagan pressed her cheek to the ground, helpless to move and almost too afraid to breathe as more arrows whistled past them.

"Stay down." Lancelot said sharply. "Whatever happens, do not get up. Lie flat on your belly and do not move. If you can, crawl beneath the wagon." By some miracle Reagan managed a nod, and in a brief moment of madness wondered if it was her imagination when she felt his lips graze the skin of her nape before he pushed himself off her with a feline grace.

She barely suppressed the urge to pull him back down, for her protection or his own she could not say, feeling completely exposed without his body covering hers. She slid her body across the dirt-packed ground, pushing herself with her hands and knees to get beneath the cover of the wagon, allowing herself a brief moment of fear and concern for Ivy and Galahad above her.

A group of the soldiers surrounded the wagon, broadswords drawn and arrows strung.

Reagan turned in time to watch as Lancelot reached behind him, draw his swords and move sinuously and lethally into the onslaught. It was a small group, she noted dismally, but they were heavily armed and her fascination overrode her fear as she watched Tristan, Lancelot and the rest of the men do what they did best: fight to defend king and country.

It was almost akin to watching someone dance, she thought darkly. Tristan was very smooth in his movements; everything timed perfectly, each deadly blow delivered with such grace, it was almost morbidly beautiful to watch as each of his opponents crumpled before him as if they were mere flies.

Lancelot had a more brutal, hands-on approach that was no less beautiful than it was scary. His two swords served him well, blocking blow after blow while at the same time managing to maim and or kill each of his opponents. She knew now why his armor was always so completely dirty.

The attack seemed to go on forever. The sound of metal on metal and the screams and cries of pain from the men who fought each other seemed to echo in the glade. This was battle in its truest form and Reagan had never expected it to be so completely brutal and frightening. It was a rude awakening, bringing home exactly how naive and sheltered she was.

Reagan witnessed men die before her, one of them, a soldier she recognized from the camp, collapsed right in front of her. His face still in death, his eyes unblinking as his head hit the dirt next to the wagon, a rivulet of blood streaming from his forehead. Reagan covered her mouth with a shaking hand to stifle a mad scream; seconds later she heard a very loud and piercing cry come from above her and fear skated up her spine at the sound.

Her eyes searched wildly around her for a way out from beneath the wagon, knowing that Ivy was in danger and there was no way she could reach her.

_To hell with this_, Reagan thought, taking one last look at the bloodied and dead soldier in front of her.

She had to find a weapon. She felt around her waist, glad to find that her sword remained strapped to her hip. Her trusty and dull little dagger, she noted, was still tucked into her boot should she need it.

She managed to crawl out from beneath the wagon unnoticed. Reagan reached clumsily for her sword, awkwardly pulling it from her scabbard. Holding the thing in front of her with two hands, she managed to side step her way to the back opening of the wagon, and what she saw made her almost drop her sword in shock.

A man was in the wagon holding a knife at Ivy's throat while another was pulling at her hair and the stays of her dress, groping at her with dirty hands while Ivy's face twisted in pure agony. Galahad, clearly in pain, lay pinned helpless by a third, a bright burning fire of anguish in his eyes as he watched the scene. Neither of them noticed Reagan.

Two of the wounded soldiers that had tried in vain to come to Ivy's defense lay dead. One was the kind boy with blond hair, whom Reagan remembered had been healing nicely, and the other a dark-haired man with a broken ankle.

Suddenly one of the Saxons spotted her, and Reagan raised her sword at him; it wavered before her unsteadily.

"Get off her, you swine!" she spat. Anger fuelled her bravery, although fear ran through her icy cold as one of the men laughed at her pathetic challenge.

They said something in a language she couldn't understand, and the man that had been holding Ivy's hair released her and climbed his way down from the wagon. He was large and dark and smelled like he had not bathed in a fortnight.

Suddenly the feeling that she was not prepared for a fight overwhelmed her. This was not swordplay, she thought wildly. _This_ was real.

"Run, Reagan! _Run!_" she heard Ivy shout at her before one of her captors covered her mouth with his hand, effectively silencing her screams. Before Reagan could even think of running the Saxon bore down on her with a blow that could have felled a grown man.

To her astonishment she blocked him with no small amount of difficulty, completely on instinct. He swung at her again and she dodged him, barely swinging out of his range, and brought her blade against his side, feeling the metal slice through his flesh. The man went down on one knee and glared at her with hatred in his eyes.

Reagan sucked in a deep breath and braced herself for more when the man stood. He came at her again, swinging wildly, pushing her back with strength and speed until she felt something hard pressing against her back and realized he had pinned her against the wagon. He leaned into her, smiling at her in a wicked way and giving her a glimpse of crooked white teeth before he wrapped his dirty fingers around her throat and began to squeeze the air from her.

The fear and anger that she felt at being cornered and strangled at the same time prompted her to act purely on instinct. She raised her knee and brought it into his crotch with as much strength as she could muster. The air whooshed out of him painfully and she took his distraction to raise her sword between them and plunge it, without a second thought, into his abdomen.

The man made a painful gasping sound, and she felt his foul-smelling breath in her face. He looked at her in shock before she pulled her sword free and kicked at him, pushing him backward. He landed with a sick thud onto the ground before her and the haze of red that covered her vision cleared when she realized briefly, numbly, that she had just killed a man.

This realization proved to be her downfall as the remaining two men in the wagon took it upon themselves to avenge their fallen comrade. Turning around two seconds too late, one of the men easily knocked the sword from her grip, making her wrists sting from the blow as her sword skittered away from her.

Then the other backhanded her with such strength that the pain didn't register until seconds later, making Reagan spin around as she lost her footing and she tried in vain to catch herself before she fell.

The bright metallic taste of blood filled her mouth and she blinked in startled pain before she was tackled to the ground for the second time that day. This time however, it was completely different and she was pinned with menacing force and unable to move.

The heavy smelly man atop her grabbed at her clothing and hair, ripping some from her scalp by the roots and forcing her head back to expose the fragile skin of her throat, as he raised his hand to bring his blade down across her skin.

Reagan closed her eyes, not wanting her final glimpse of this life to be that of an ugly Saxon's smug face, inches from her own, before he sliced her throat open. In what seemed like an eternity, but must have been mere seconds, the large man was yanked off her and a blade brutally rammed through his neck.

Warm, sticky blood splattered Reagan's face and tunic and she pried open her eyes to find Lancelot standing over her, his face vicious in its dark beauty. She felt overwhelming relief surge through her, followed shortly by thick dread at his expression.

It wasn't the recently dead man with a sword sticking out of his throat that Reagan feared, but the warrior who pulled his blade free in one fluid movement, then carelessly flung the body away from him. She watched as it rolled a few times to land against his fallen comrade. Reagan acted on her first instinct to flee and she scuttled backwards in a crab-like walk away from Lancelot, thinking only to protect herself.

She had disobeyed his request for her to remain out of the way and he looked murderous.

Lancelot reached down and grabbed her by the collar of her tunic, hauling her up in one swift movement. He gave her two hard shakes that jarred her neck, before he settled her onto her feet, seething with rage.

"Don't you ever, _ever_ do anything that idiotic again!" he shoved an angry finger into her face and Reagan practically went cross-eyed staring at it. "When I told you to keep safe I meant it! What the _hell_ were you thinking?" He bellowed, his handsome features were twisted and ruddy in his anger and she thought him very unattractive at the moment.

"I…I…" Reagan stuttered, at a complete loss as to what to reply, for she had never been the recipient of such hostility.

"You could have _died,_ damn you!" He shouted at her, his voice breaking slightly on the last word. An absurd warm feeling flooded her at his words, and despite it being the most inappropriate time to be feeling such a thing her eyes suddenly welled up with tears. He didn't want her to die and he wanted her safe. He really did care for her.

"Oh, for the love of the gods, Reagan, _do not_ cry!" he said, exasperated, and he seemed to wilt before her, his armor-clad shoulders sagging and his mouth turning downward into a deep frown as one stray tear trailed down her blood-splattered cheek.

"Well what the fuck do you expect? You're shouting at her like a damned fool!" Galahad's righteous voice cut though the relative and eerie stillness of their surroundings.

Reagan looked around her, stunned to realize much too late that the fighting had ended rather anticlimactically and that most of their men had survived.

"If it hadn't been for Reagan, you prick, Ivy and I would be dead." Galahad had stepped down from the wagon and was leaning against it heavily. His white tunic hung limply on his wiry frame and strain showed on his features but there was no way he could have managed to stay one more moment hidden within the back of the cart. Ivy had crawled her way to the edge, clutching onto his arm as if she held the power alone to support him.

Reagan glanced at Galahad sideways and gave him a watery yet weak smile of gratitude. He didn't have to come to her defense, but she was thankful that at least someone appreciated her floundering attempt at rescue. A small audience had gathered at the display and Reagan watched as Lancelot tensed up under the scrutiny.

Lancelot's jaw clenched so tightly Reagan was surprised none of his teeth cracked under the pressure. He glared daggers at Galahad before turning the full force of that black glittering gaze on Reagan, and she refused to even blink lest she give herself away and breakdown completely in front of him. She watched as Lancelot raised his arm and pointed one of his swords at Galahad.

"That is enough out of you. Lie down before you collapse." She expected his tone to be harsher, but it merely fell flat as if Lancelot realized too late he had perhaps overreacted, though she knew he would never admit to it. His eyes, however, never left hers.

"You." He said and she did not mistake to whom he was talking. "When we are finished here, I would very much like to have a word." She felt herself nod limply, all of the adrenaline she felt earlier fading from her body and leaving her feeling shaken and cold all at once.

Everything that happened afterward seemed like a blur and she walked around feeling as if she was in some sort of daze. Reagan assisted where she was instructed, helping Ivy tend to the small fraction of the men that were wounded. Lancelot had managed to move the party away from the sight of the attack and they were now sheltered within a thick forest. Dusk was settling and Reagan realized sadly they had buried more men that day.

She sat on a dry, mossy patch of forest floor, away from the blazing warmth of the camp fires, away from the soldiers that were eating a meager supper, feeling as if her body had taken a great beating—which, when she thought about it, it had. She lifted a hand to inspect her puffy lip and bruised jaw, her thoughts turning inward.

She had killed a man today, and the memory of the Saxon's pained gasps, and the sound of his body collapsing as it hit the ground echoed in her mind. Reagan closed her eyes, hoping that she could try to blot out the images by sheer force of will, but finding it impossible to do so. She had never taken another life until today, had never believed herself capable of doing so.

The sound of footsteps alerted her to another presence. Blinking, she turned to see who approached. If she had been more alert and of a sounder mind she would have realized that sooner or later Lancelot would come to her.

Reagan had no more resistance built up toward him, today's events had cleared the air between them as far as she was concerned and as he walked toward her in the fading light of the sun she felt nothing but a bone-weary relief. Finally, Lancelot was walking toward her instead away from her.

When he finally stopped in front of her, he stared down at her with deep dark eyes and Reagan had not the strength left to look away. As if bending to her will he lowered himself toward her, resting his elbows on his knees. Lancelot cocked his head examining her face as if seeing it for the first time. Reagan could not stop her gasp of surprise when he reached out and gently stroked the yellowish-purple bruise that covered the left side of her cheek and jaw and ran his thumb along her split lower lip.

"Does it pain you?" he asked in a low deep tone and she shivered at his touch.

"Not any more," she said just as quietly. "Though, the memory does not wane." He sighed at her reply and finally settled down before her. He had removed his armor, choosing instead to remain dressed in his black breeches and white tunic, and despite the fact that he had not managed to clean all of the blood splatters from his shirt sleeves he was a magnificent creature to her in the fading twilight.

"I wish I could say that with time it gets easier, but it does not." Reagan blinked at him confused at his honest confession. "Why did you not listen to me and stay out of the fray as I had wished?"

"And let something awful happen to Ivy and Galahad? I think not, sir!" Reagan snapped, angry that he would once again question her actions. "Not if I still had a sword and some knowledge of how to wield it." She expected him to react angrily at her demeanor yet he did not.

Lancelot only regarded her with a solemn gaze that seemed weighted down with hundreds of memories and regrets.

"I think, squire, that I owe you an apology." He said and Reagan's eyes widened in surprise. Lancelot chuckled softly. "Do not look so astounded, Reagan, I can admit when I am mistaken."

"Forgive me, my lord, given my view of recent events, I somehow I find that very hard to believe," she replied. Reagan knew she was being cheeky, yet she could not stop herself. He chose to ignore her comment.

"Do you still stubbornly refuse my offer of protection? I would give it to you freely and gladly. I do not wish to see you…" He paused and looked away from her for a moment then looked back at her with a gaze filled with such questioning emotion, that she felt the breath catch in her throat. "I do not wish to see you hurt again."

"Do you care for me?" Reagan blurted before she could take the words back. Lancelot looked slightly taken aback at her abruptness, yet she did not regret asking him. She needed to know, burned for any kind of answer from him. Watching as he took a moment too long to search for a reply, she steeled herself against anything he might say, be it good or bad.

"Yes, I…_care_ for you." He said, his tone as intense as his gaze, as if he were amazed she would ask such a thing of him.

"Then why hide your regard behind this false barrier of 'protection' you keep offering?" She knew she may be pushing him too far, yet she could not stand any more of this, could not stand any more of the tension and the yearning she felt to be near him. If he cared for her he would offer her more than just his protection.

"What does it matter? Do you not understand what my protection would offer you?" She met his steady gaze and did not falter; sitting up straighter Reagan pushed her shoulders back and answered him.

"I understand only too well what would become of me. I think you know that I'm asking for much more than just your guardianship, more than just your coin and the reputation of your name. I think you also know and believe I deserve much more than that."

"I'm offering what is within my power to give you." Lancelot said. "Why do you question that?"

"Because I am not some child's toy to be pushed and pulled this way and that. I am a woman with a heart. A woman who is offering that heart to you freely and yet you still refuse me." Reagan took a deep breath feeling tears gather on her lashes at her confession. She watched as he looked away from her as if her honest and anguished gaze was too intense for him to bear.

"How can I make you understand what I'm capable of? How can I explain what I've done in the past? Of what I am?" He said, his voice straining, and Reagan reached for his hand, wanting nothing more than to touch him at that moment, yet he tensed and pulled his hand away from her before she had the chance.

"How can I know if you won't tell me? Don't pretend that nothing exists between us except for a forced acquaintance. Help me to understand, Lancelot or let me go," she replied, her voice quivering with emotion as she opened herself up to him once again.

"I _can't_. Damn you!" He replied fiercely and Reagan found herself at a loss as to how to respond.

She pushed herself from the ground in one swift, graceful movement, propelled by her own frustration and anger at the situation. It seemed this was a never-ending vicious circle between them. He would make a play for her and she would accede only to have him push her away again. It was exhausting, it was undignified and she couldn't take it any more.

"Then don't expect me to waste my love on someone who does not want it, any longer. I've been given a second chance and I will not squander it with someone who does not want me."

She knew she was issuing him an ultimatum that any woman would be foolish to try, but Reagan also knew that without it she would go her whole life wondering what could have been had she not uttered those words this night. Lancelot's black eyes glittered in his pale face and in that moment he had never looked more beautiful to her, more agonized. Yet, she did not turn back. Putting one foot in front of the other Reagan took it upon herself to finally be the first to walk away from him, never realizing how hard it would actually turn out to be.

**AN: ****O.K.**** then... Well Reagan's finally had enough and now Lancelot is forced to either confront his demons and win the girl, or gi****ve**** her up forever. Ah...if only it was as simple as that. Arthur is going to throw a wrench into the works when they get back to the wall and it's going to make the pair of them pretty angry. Look for more Galahad, Ivy, Tristan and a reunion with ****Lucan**** and the dreaded stables in the next chapter! Until then, hope you enjoyed! Happy Reading everyone**!


	19. Chapter 19

**No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story; I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**Huge thanks to the beta team for this one. Talk about one conflicted author. This chapter was not easy to write by any means. They were the three souls responsible for making this chapter legible and grammatically correct. Leigh, Jo and Murt your continued support is immeasurable. **

**For Leigh: Because you are my best friend and you put up with my random calls in the middle of the week where the conversation inevitably leads me to freak out about this story. Your instincts always pan out. I love you; my Dynasty watching, wine sharing, giggling friend with mad editing skills. Thank you from the bottom of my heart! **

**I want to personally apologize for the long wait in between chapters, real life has an awful way of sneaking up on you.**

"_Destiny has two ways of crushing us -- by refusing our wishes and by fulfilling them."_** -****Henri Frederic Amiel**

Chapter 19

Brightly light torches flickered their warm light on the grey stonewalls of the stables. The muffled sound of hooves rustling straw and the soft snorts of the horses was a welcome sound to Reagan's ears.

The familiar smells and sounds of the stables lulled Reagan into a quiet working routine that offered her no respite from her troubled thoughts. It was the third full day since their return to the wall and she had gone back into her regular routine with almost no hesitation or complaint.

The warm welcome the party had received upon their arrival was the highlight of the long agonizing trip back.

She practically burst with relief when Lucan ran to embrace her in the courtyard as she climbed down from the sick wagon on wobbly legs. Reagan had forgotten how much she enjoyed his company, not realizing how much she missed him until he began to bombard her with questions with his own special type of exuberance.

On that first day Reagan could not have asked for a better distraction.

At the moment, she stood in Skye's stall; brush in hand, counting the strokes as she gently ran it along the grey's coat. The mare stood still, her eyes blinking slowly with every glide of the bristles, clearly enjoying the attention.

It was abnormally quiet tonight in the stables. Ganis and Gilly had gone to supper early, leaving her and Lucan to share in the duties of cleaning the rest of the stalls before they too could finally settle down for the day.

Reagan tried to drag out her tasks for as long as she could, knowing that there was nothing to look forward to after she was finished here. She would eat, pretend to listen to what ever Lucan was rambling about and then retire to her old bunk in the servant's quarters where she would try to stifle the sounds of her pathetic weeping while the others slept in blissful oblivion.

Reagan soon began to dread the following days, as she knew she'd wake up and the whole depressing process would start over again.

Then there was the other matter of the constant longing and dissatisfaction bottled up inside her that threatened to erupt and overflow at the slightest provocation, which was its own sort of torture. Reagan felt trapped, and helpless, and despite being surrounded by people, she was lonely and she did not like it.

She knew the reason for it, even as a bleak sense of melancholy swept over her at the thought of him.

Lancelot had not come to her in three days.

_Three damn days_. He had stayed staunchly away from her since they'd returned.

_Damn him! _

Reagan could not blame him, though, after the cold way she had treated him in the two days it took them to make it back to the wall. Not that Lancelot's demeanor towards her had been any different, but he had attempted break the silence between them at least twice. With a sheer stubborn force of will she never believed herself capable of, she managed to ignore his proverbial olive branch.

She preferred instead to bury herself in the tasks Ivy gave her and focus on the road ahead while they traveled. Reagan knew herself to be glaringly weak-willed when it came to Lancelot. She also knew that with one kind word from him, she would spiral back into that same frustrating pattern they shared. Self-preservation through silence seemed her only choice.

_Though it turned out to be a very poor choice indeed_, she mused bitterly. Reagan had never really known regret before, but now she was a boon friend with the emotion.

Lucan stepped into the stall with her. Meeting her gaze over Skye's back, he gave her a jaunty little wave with his own brush and Reagan cracked a small smile. The pair of them silently continued to brush the mare, though knowing Lucan the silence wouldn't last long.

"Reagan." He began almost cautiously, and she had the feeling he was gearing himself up to ask her for something.

"Yes, Lucan?" she sighed, pausing her movements to look at him.

"I've been…well I've given this a lot of thought while you were away and there is something I'd like to ask you…It's kind of personal and if you don't want to answer it's alright… I just thought, well maybe…"

"_What,_ Lucan?" She snapped, trying to smooth her temper with a tight smile. Reagan couldn't take any more of his hemming and hawing; if the question was so bloody important then he should have spit it out by now.

She watched as her friend immediately stopped brushing, looked at her with wary blue eyes, a ringlet of blond hair hanging over his forehead as he swallowed audibly.

"You're not really a boy, are you?" He blurted, the words tumbling from his mouth so fast they ran together. It took her a moment to realize what he had asked. The question should have surprised her, but for some reason it didn't.

He'd been looking at her differently since her return. Studying her as though she were something fascinating and she had not been oblivious to his covert attention. She had tried to pretend not to notice the curious looks he would throw her way, simply paying him no mind when she caught Lucan staring at her.

Feeling her shoulders sag, Reagan resumed her brushing. "No, Lucan, I'm _not_ a boy."

"I knew it!" He exclaimed triumphantly as if he'd just solved a very perplexing and troubling puzzle.

"You are that girl those men have been looking for, aren't you?" He asked and Reagan gave him a startled look.

"What _men,_ Lucan? Who is looking for me?" _Not those same men that had been at the fort weeks earlier?_ She thought, her heart pounding in panic.

"Two men passed here three days before you arrived, they posted notices about you, but seeing as most of us can't read well…" He didn't bother explaining. Oh fantastic, half the fort would be teeming with people looking for her, waiting to get their hands on a handsome prize of ten silver coins if they found her.

"Oh, no," she said weakly, feeling stricken at the very idea of Rullus seeking to find her at the wall. Reagan had hoped he'd given up by now. It had been weeks, surely his attentions had gone elsewhere, but according to Lucan and the mysterious men who continued to look for her they had not.

"You're not really a witch, are you?" Lucan suddenly thought to ask, a note of cautious fear in his voice.

"No, Lucan, I'm not a witch and I'm not a boy. I'm just a girl who is very much in over her head." She replied wearily. Reagan did, after all, belong to Rullus, thanks to her wastrel of a father.

She heard Lucan move toward her side of the stall, and felt him drape an arm across her shoulders and give her a slight reassuring nudge, a comforting gesture that cut through the bitterness she was feeling at the moment.

"Don't worry, your secret is safe with me. I won't tell anyone about you." Lucan's earnestness was obvious and Reagan believed him despite herself.

She really had a long way to go to work through her trust issues.

Her disguise was failing her: how many more people would soon realize that the clumsy stable boy/squire was actually a girl with a hefty bounty on her head; one who had a mad Lord after her, determined to have her back at any cost?

Reagan was too afraid to give the question much thought. Something had to be done.

She was going to have to take some drastic measures to make sure she stayed hidden. Though, at that particular panic-stricken moment she couldn't even move her feet in the correct direction.

"Come on, let's finish here and get something to eat, I'm starving." Lucan offered, his old exuberance once again returning despite the seriousness of their conversation.

Reagan found herself agreeing, and soon enough the pair had finished with Skye's stall and began to make their way to the kitchens. Reagan's eyes fretfully scanned the crowds of people milling about, yet no one seemed to pay them much mind. She sighed with relief; maybe her disguise wasn't as obvious as she thought.

Reagan was just beginning to warm to the idea of a bowl of stew and hearty bread when she heard someone call out her name. Both she and Lucan turned around at the sound and she was surprised to find Finn running toward her, his red hair bouncing with each step.

"Reagan!" He panted, coming to a quick stop in front of her. "I've come to fetch you."

"Why?" She asked surprised.

"The King requests a word with you. He requires your presence."

"The King?" Reagan gasped, "what _now_?" The words came out sharper than she intended, a tinge of madness in her voice.

The two boys gaped at her and with a sinking feeling Reagan knew she was not prepared to meet the king. At the very least, her clothes were dirty, she had splatters of mash she'd been preparing for the broodmares on her boots and she was sure she reeked of the stables.

"Yes, _now_." Finn replied giving her a irritated look.

"I…I need to change to make myself presentable." She stalled, smoothing down the tendrils of her dark hair that she knew were sticking up at odd angles. Finn and Lucan gave her a strange look at her futile attempts at grooming.

"You look fine. Now come with me." Finn bit off shortly, then beckoned her forward and started off without making sure she followed. Having no other choice except to turn tail and run, she gave one last weary look at Lucan before admitting defeat and following Finn. Reagan knew that this _meeting_, this _request_ was not a simple audience with the King.

Somehow she knew they were going to discuss what was to become of her.

* * *

Reagan followed Finn up several flights of winding stone stairs deep inside the inner bailey of the fort. It was cool and damp and despite that she felt herself break out into a cold sweat as they climbed. Finally they approached a set of massive iron hinged doors, and an even bigger guard stood before them. He nodded curtly at Finn and pulled the large doors open with supreme ease.

The guard's eyes narrowed to slits under the metal of his helmet as she passed and she suppressed the urge to flinch at the look. Reagan tried unsuccessfully to ward off the chill of foreboding she felt as she crossed the threshold into the great room.

The king's private chambers were not at all what she expected them to be.

A huge desk littered with scrolls and parchment sat in the center of the room. A merry fire crackled in the fireplace and numerous torches in iron sconces illuminated the room with a welcoming orange-red glow. Tapestries and rugs covered the walls and floors in regal reds and purples. Shelves upon shelves of texts, boxes, scrolls, bowls, and tools she couldn't identify lined the walls behind the desk.

Reagan felt herself come to a stuttering stop as four men rose from their chairs and turned in unison at her arrival.

Arthur stood first and grinned at her warmly, Tristan and Lancelot both nodded at her, although she felt the latter's gaze linger on her making the hair on the back of her neck rise in awareness.

Galahad pushed himself up out of his chair with a bit of difficulty but he beamed at her in an almost foolish way, his rapidly healing arm wrapped in a sling, and as he appeared to be on the mend, she reluctantly returned his smile with a paper thin one of her own.

Finn stopped abruptly in front of her and gave Arthur and the knights a deep bow. Reagan felt herself falter again, unsure if she should curtsy or bow as she was still dressed as a boy, but all present in the room would surely know by now that she was female.

She would be the first to admit that she was inept when it came to courtly manners, so she improvised and gave the King a slight curtsy/bow move which made Arthur's eyebrows raise to his hairline. Reagan heard a faint choking sound and she knew that Galahad was struggling to hold back his laughter. She didn't dare look at Lancelot though.

Reagan was fully aware he was glaring at her, as she'd felt nothing so keenly as his dark gaze.

"Thank you, Finn. You may return to your duties." She heard Galahad say and without preamble, Finn departed as quickly as he had appeared, leaving Reagan to fend for herself. She jumped slightly as the sound of the massive doors closing seemed to echo in the cavernous room.

"Lady Reagan, it is good to finally have you before me. There has been much talk of you since my three knights have returned." Reagan nodded demurely at Arthur, her face coloring.

"I am of no title, Your Majesty, there is no need to call me 'Lady'," she offered in a tight voice," I do hope that I have been painted in a favorable light."

"Your lack of title means little to me, your bravery and the aid that Lady Ivy, Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot received while in your care is more than enough to elevate you in my opinion."

Reagan felt her flush deepening. "Thank you, my lord."

"I have much to discuss with you, but first I must ask: is it true that this Lord Rullus owns you?"

She could not stop her involuntary flinch at Rullus' name, drat it all when was she going to ever get used to hearing that name?

And he _owned_ her?

Well, in the truest sense of the word yes, but Reagan had held firm and since that fateful night in Walenham when two priests took upon themselves to disguise her and steal her away, that Rullus still remained unable to sink his claws into her--for now.

"Yes, my lord. It would seem that my father sold me to Lord Rullus to pay off a few of his debts."

"Then those men that were here earlier were indeed inquiring about you?"

Her eyes darted to Tristan his expression giving nothing away before answering, "Yes, my lord."

"It is my understanding that this is not the first time something like this has occurred?"

Reagan shook her head, wisps of hair falling in her eyes at the motion. "No, my lord."

"Yet, you continue to evade them. I trust you have not managed this remarkable feat all on your own. For two months you led the people of Camelot to believe you were an orphaned boy. I placed you into the care of one of my most trusted knights and you still carried on with your deception. You must know that willingly deceiving a high ranking officer is grounds for treason." Reagan felt her eyes stray to Lancelot as if she could not help herself, remembering all too vividly that night he had said that very thing to her.

"Willingly deceiving the king is grounds for execution." Arthur continued and she felt her fear rise as her eyes nervously returned to the king.

Reagan's heart sank to her toes at the casually spoken words, which were at complete odds with the king's intense expression.

"Why did you not come forward when you had the chance?" Arthur asked and she felt pinned, unable to speak, as the four men stared at her as if she were a caged animal. Was this really happening? She couldn't actually fathom how the conversation had suddenly turned into an inquisition.

"Apologies, my lord, if I have caused anyone here pain for my lies. I felt that my current situation was unbearable, given my low status back at Waldenham and the questionable care I would have received at the hands of Lord Rullus. I felt that this-" Reagan motioned to her clothes and hair, "was my only choice."

"Then you do not deny that you have come here to Camelot under false pretences."

"How could I, my lord?" She asked almost afraid to look Arthur in the eye.

"At least now you are willing to speak the truth. If Father Daniel had not written to me explaining why you were here and the trouble you were in, I expect you would be spending the night in the dungeons awaiting your trial." Reagan felt herself swallow with great difficulty, unable to tear her gaze from Arthur's.

"However, if what my men tell me is true, you have proven yourself to be an honorable and impressive young woman. You don't need me to tell you, Reagan, how lucky you are to have such caring friends and allies." Reagan blinked at him in shock.

Father Daniel had written to the king? On her behalf?

These three knights had spoken of her in kind terms?

"Be that as it may, and the predicament you now find yourself in, I feel that we must act fast." She nodded, and knew it was only a matter of time before that particular motion would come to pass.

"I think it would only be right to dismiss you from your duties as squire to Sir Lancelot." Was it her imagination or did Lancelot clearly look relieved when hearing those words?

"Instead, I think it best to appoint you a ward of the kingdom. At least that will offer you certain protection while inside the wall." Had Reagan not been so distressed she would have smiled. "I have also taken it upon myself to appoint you a guardian. You will remain as Lancelot's charge until we can decide when it is a safe time to return you to your village."

Instead of his squire, she was now Lancelot's charge.

Reagan felt a bitter smile twist her lips; once again Lancelot had gotten exactly what he wanted. How perfect.

"I fear that there will never be a safe time for me to return, my lord," She felt it safe to interject. "By all rights, as soon as I am back within the outskirts of the village there is nothing to stop Lord Rullus. My escape has heretofore been successful, and if I know Rullus at all, he will not rest until I am returned to him." Reagan finished dismally, knowing full well that her plight was futile now that these men sought to "out" her.

They were removing her from her post as squire and instead placing her as ward of the kingdom. Whatever that was. She'd not felt this powerless since that night she'd barely fended off Rullus, rock in hand, her fear and need to escape so overwhelming and compelling she'd not known her own strength.

"I had thought of that as well. There may be an easy remedy to your problem." Reagan waited with bated breath to hear what Arthur might have to say: if he could offer her a solution to her problem that she had not thought of then she would welcome it with open arms.

Reagan never expected that the king would help a commoner such as herself, but when she listened to his final judgment, her disbelief at the ultimate price she would need to pay for her freedom from Rullus even exceeded her earlier surprise.

* * *

It had been a mistake to tell Arthur, there was no doubt of that.

Lancelot turned to face the king as Galahad and Tristan escorted a bewildered and slightly shocked Reagan out so that he could talk things over with Arthur. Lancelot's posture was stiff and his mind reeled with everything that had just taken place. He blinked slowly struggling to come to grips with the fact that in a just a few short moments his entire world had been turned on it's axis.

One of the most disconcerting things to come to pass was that Reagan was no longer his squire but his ward and he had just been given the unfortunate task of finding her a husband in a very short time frame.

Lancelot was to play matchmaker. It was ludicrous and he would have laughed in Arthur's face at the prospect if he hadn't felt so despondent the moment. How in the name of the gods had this come about? This had been a typical meeting as far as he was concerned: a typical, rather amusing, recitation of events that had eventually turned out all wrong.

Reagan had not uttered one protest, not one word against what Arthur had so confidently touted would be her salvation.

Marriage.

Lancelot could not understand why?

Why did she not argue?

Why did Reagan not rail against this completely ridiculous decree?

Why had she stood there and looked at him with such expectation in her eyes, as if he alone held the answer? At the time, Lancelot had been just as confounded as Reagan. Arthur, suddenly appointing her is ward. Arthur turning and stating that he would be responsible for finding her a husband, all the while a smile on his benevolent and regal countenance that seemed almost mocking.

None of it made sense. None of it.

How was Lancelot supposed to find a man willing to take her on and protect her enough to ensure that she would no longer live in fear?

How was he to find a man worthy enough to marry her? It was an impossible, almost unbearable situation and he felt a righteous, impotent sense of frustration well up inside him as he numbly sank once more in his chair.

"It has come to my attention since your return, that your presence has been greatly missed at some of the more disreputable establishments within the kingdom." Lancelot paused in his musings to look at his friend with a wary eye.

"Has it?" he asked quietly, unconcerned.

"Yes. It seems that you are quite satisfied with taking your meals in your rooms and roaming the battlements at night brooding, rather than spending your coin at the gaming tables or on _certain_ company." Arthur offered curiously and Lancelot shrugged his shoulders as if it mattered not how he chose to use his spare time.

"I would have thought given your solitude and a lack of female companionship in the time you were away, you more than anyone would have frequented your usual haunts as soon as you returned." Arthur scratched his chin in a thoughtful gesture; he sat slumped in his chair and idly sipped his drink, all the while glaring at Lancelot as if he were a puzzle all too easily solved.

"I can see now why your absence at these places makes sense. You were not exactly lacking in company while you were away, were you?" Lancelot felt his hackles rise at the accusation, despite the fact that it was completely true.

"Just what exactly are you getting at, Arthur? You know how much I abhor the fact that you feel the need to hedge around certain topics," he snapped.

"I have never judged you or the company you chose to keep. I have never once begrudged your desire for certain entertainments. No one can blame you for your actions. She is beautiful and it would go against your nature not to take something that I'm sure was all too freely offered." Arthur sighed and set his cup down, a ring of red liquid seeping into the parchment around it.

Lancelot shifted in his chair, suddenly excruciatingly uncomfortable under Arthur's steady and uncompromising gaze. "What exactly are you implying? That I seduced my squire?" he asked, disbelieving that Arthur of all people would be the one to assume this of him.

"Yes." The answer came so plainly and matter-of-fact that it took Lancelot a second to register that Arthur had even uttered the word.

"And if your assumption were to be true, what would you have me do?" He found himself asking, leaning forward in an invitation for his friend to continue.

"Do you not deny it?"

"You just said I could not be blamed for my actions. If I were guilty of what you suspect then why would the questionable virtue of a girl who had deceived everyone in her care be such a concern to you?"

"Because I know you-- perhaps best of all, and I may be foolish enough to believe not even you would have taken that girl without at least a moment's hesitation," Arthur offered, his gaze open and honest. Lancelot sighed and forced himself to look away.

"Lancelot, whether you are willing to admit to it or not, I saw the way she looked at you tonight. I know the look of a woman in love; your queen has at least taught me that."

Lancelot turned back to his friend and narrowed his eyes, unwilling to admit that Arthur's words had a ring of truth to them. He knew Reagan was in love with him- he did not need Arthur to point that out.

"What ever transpired between you is not my concern. Reagan, despite her deception, is a brave woman and it is painfully apparent that she feels something for you. Alas, you now find yourself in the unappealing position of finding that woman a husband who is willing to overlook her lack of virtue and unfortunate style of dress." Arthur gave him a wry smile and Lancelot felt himself return it with a weak one of his own. "It is not a task I would have appointed to someone lightly."

"Then why did you appoint me? To amuse yourself?" he asked, his tone sharper than he intended. Arthur glared at him as if the answer were as plain as day, yet Lancelot still had no idea why Arthur continued to thrust Reagan into his care.

First his squire, now his ward. If anything he had hoped that Arthur would have been wise enough to see that he was not the correct choice to be her guardian.

There were two other knights he could have chosen from who would have been happy to take on the task. Lancelot was fully convinced that nothing good would come of this new situation.

Once again he was forced to look after Reagan and this time what bothered him more than anything was that he couldn't muster the resentment he'd felt the first time around.

"Amuse myself? Oh good god, no." Arthur's smile dimmed somewhat. "You obviously have something invested in Reagan, or am I mistaken in thinking you offer your protection to every girl that crosses your path?"

"Arthur…" Lancelot warned feeling his temper rise at the repeated jabs.

"Stop your posturing." Arthur chided as if he were a boy, "you've already resigned yourself to this task. Next to your vanity, your steadfast loyalty may be your biggest flaw." Lancelot ground his teeth together in frustration at the sly remark, glaring at his friend as Arthur's bright smile returned once more.

"Do not fret about finding that girl a husband. By the look of her, the task should be fairly easy. A fortnight is more than ample time I should think."

"A year's time wouldn't be sufficient! She's comely, yes, but you don't know the first thing about her. That respectful, meek little creature that was just in here was not my Reagan. That girl, that _woman,_ is impossible to please and just when you think you've gotten the upper hand she'll turn on you out of spite-- and don't _ever_ let her mend for you." Lancelot bit off, before he realized he may have said too much, and by Arthur's expression, he had.

Frustrated now with himself, he pushed himself out of his chair, wanting nothing more than a drink and some time to think things over. Unfortunately, that couldn't happen right away as he still had to make sure Reagan had a safe place to sleep, and he knew that she was no doubt still waiting for him outside.

He turned away from Arthur and made quick purposeful strides to the doors, effectively putting an end to their conversation, stopping only when his friend's voice called out to him. He turned back to glare at him with a wary eye.

"Lancelot, know that this was set today not for my own amusement. It is the only solution I could divine that would protect my interests as well as the girl's interests. If she is married by law and in front of God, then Rullus of Waldenham will have to call off his witch-hunt and forfeit his reward for Reagan's return. He will have no power to claim that which will does not belong to him. I've put my faith in you to carry this task out, just as I put my faith in you, some time ago, to train a brave and audacious stable boy to become a knight."

Lancelot stood there taking in Arthur's words with obvious reluctance. He had never asked to be chained to this impossible, foolish girl that confused and confounded him more that anyone he had ever met.

Lancelot realized despairingly that this was possibly worse that training an incompetent boy to be his squire. Finding Reagan a husband in so short a period of time, even in name only, seemed an insurmountable task at the moment.

"It may not seem like it now but I know if you look hard enough, you'll find a man worthy enough to marry her."

Arthur's unwavering trust in him rankled Lancelot, pushing him ever closer to the point of lashing out irrationally at his friend and deep down he knew that was last thing he wanted to do. Grasping desperately onto the last shreds of his temper, he accepted Arthur's kind words, though they rang hollow in his ears.

His hand hovered over one of the iron door handles before he pulled it open. Lancelot nodded once before he set his shoulders as if he were carrying an impossible burden, not once misconstruing his friend's thinly veiled message.

Lancelot could not marry Reagan. He had been destined from the beginning for a life of violence and destruction. There was nothing gentle or soft about him, and if she were to marry someday, it would be to a gentleman who deserved her, one who could build a life with her and give her children.

On some elemental level he hated this nonexistent man beyond reason.

Reagan would marry a _gentle_ man, he harshly reminded himself, steeling himself once more before he finally opened the great doors, and Lancelot would try his best to find one for her.

**AN: Ah that sneaky Arthur... meddling in affairs in his kingly way. It seems he knows what's best for his first knight even if a very reluctant and angry Lancelot doesn't. Now it remains to be seen: will our hot tempered knight step up to the plate and do what is right? Or will someone beat him to the punch?**

**I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, chapter 20 is almost finished. Look for it soon. Thank you so much to everyone that reviewed/read the last chapter. I'm always happy to hear from new readers. Your continued support is what encourages me! **

**~S**


	20. Chapter 20

**N****o money is being made from this. I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story. I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**Thank you Beta Team- as always. You know who you are.**

**For Sera Femme, because you asked for it many, many chapters ago. **

"_Everywhere the human soul stands between a hemisphere of light and another of darkness; on the confines of two everlasting hostile empires, Necessity and Freewill."__**-**_**Thomas Carlyle**

Chapter 20

Reagan was to be married. As if that wasn't a shocking enough decree, the unanswered questions posed by this new solution to her problem were enough to make her go slightly mad. The one thing that kept resurfacing in her mind was the blank look on Lancelot's face when Arthur had decreed her fate.

He had turned to her and said nothing, had done nothing. Reagan held her breath and stared at him willing him into any kind of action. _You're the one I love. You're the one I want! Do something!_ She had wanted to scream. Instead Lancelot's hard face and coal-black eyes revealed nothing and his silence was telling enough. At that moment she hated him and was convinced she would continue to hate him until her dying day.

Taking a ragged breath, she pressed herself wearily against the cool stone wall of the corridor outside of Arthur's chambers, feeling her entire body sag. The two men that had so kindly escorted her away from Arthur stood a few feet away from her, mumbling to each other; occasionally one of them would look her way and nod.

Finally they broke apart. Galahad came to her first, the too-bright smile on his face making his scruffy beard twitch. Reagan focused on that for a second, blinking when his hand tenderly, yet awkwardly patted her on the shoulder in what she assumed was meant to be a reassuring gesture.

"Lancelot will do his duty. He will find you a good man to marry. Do not fret, you must always trust in Arthur. He knows what he's doing." Reagan gazed up into his handsome young face, feeling herself blanch at his words. _So damn trusting_, she thought furiously_, so damn condescending_.

Reagan said nothing. Pressing her lips into a fine line she gave Galahad a curt nod. He patted her once more, making her want to shrug off his hand in annoyance.

"I must be going. There are a few personal things I have to tend to." He gave her a short polite bow, "Goodnight, my lady."

Galahad turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the corridor, the huge guard outside Arthur's chambers standing at attention as he passed. Suddenly feeling completely deflated, she watched Galahad leave, knowing full well he was going to see Ivy. A bitter sting of jealousy surged through her at the thought. Why did it seem that fate continued to withhold from her the normal things in life that some people seemed to take for granted?

She felt Tristan's eyes on her and turned to meet his keen gaze. With a quick wave of his hand he silently excused the guard and the big man lumbered away from his post, leaving the two of them completely alone in the corridor.

"All is not lost, Reagan. Know that." She gave him a bitter smile. Tristan and his cryptic statements - was that supposed to comfort her? After everything was said and done she would have nothing left. Nothing. Not the man she loved or the life she was desperately trying to restore to its former simplicity.

All because Arthur believed the only way to keep Rullus at bay was to marry her off. Marry her to some complete and utter stranger. Reagan was tempted to go back to Waldenham at that moment: At least with Rullus she knew what kind of life she would lead instead of being confronted with a future that was completely uncertain.

"Save your breath, sir, I know now that I've sealed my own fate." Reagan snapped.

"That's not true and you know it," Tristan bit off, stalking toward her slowly. She warily watched him approach.

"Then what do you suggest I do? Disobey Arthur? Willingly commit a second act of treason? Who would want me then? I've lost my virtue, my innocence, and my pride. I foolishly gave everything away to someone who did not want it. I have nothing to offer any one," she finished, weakly folding her arms across her chest in a defensive gesture.

Ashamed at herself for her outburst she looked away from Tristan. Reagan knew full well she was feeling completely sorry for herself, but she was of a mind to linger in her own self pity. To hell with what other people thought.

"I would marry you. Given the chance I would claim you for my own, if I thought for one second some part of you could be mine." Reagan looked back at him, stunned at the honest admission, feeling her eyes go wide.

Tristan reached up and gently cupped her chin in his rough palm, his oddly colored eyes studying her features as if he wanted to commit them to memory. Reagan gasped, surprised at his touch, at the careful caress of his fingers on her skin as if he were afraid he might break her.

"Do not look at me like that, girl. Don't. Not when I know you belong completely to another. I may be many things, but I am neither a fool nor a thief. I will not steal another man's woman." Reagan felt her lips tremble at his words and she reached out to clutch onto the sleeves of his tunic, holding on to him as if she could absorb some of his stoic strength before she broke down completely.

"I am not his woman," Reagan whispered back, "because he does not want me." She finished, her voice thick with tears.

"Then he is a fool," Tristan replied plainly, before Reagan lost all control over her emotions. Pressing her face into the soft worn fabric of his over tunic, she sobbed helplessly. Tristan stood ramrod straight and tense as if he didn't quite know what to do with her.

They stood awkwardly like that for a few moments until she managed to pull herself together. Reagan didn't know what was worse: finally having Tristan confess that he wanted her, or making a complete pathetic ass out of herself in front of him afterward.

In the grand scheme of things, Reagan decided, it didn't really matter.

Reagan heard the click of a latch and the slide of a heavy door and knew they were no longer alone in the corridor. She turned in time to see her newly appointed guardian step over the threshold and quietly shut the door behind him.

Lancelot's dark eyes took in the scene before him, his intense gaze not missing how close the scout stood to her or the fact that her fingers were still curled into his shirtsleeves. Reagan noticed how that as Lancelot looked at her, he clutched onto the metal of the door handle so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Aware of the sight they must have presented, Reagan quickly let go of Tristan and he stepped away from her, backing slowly into the deep shadows of the hallway. Reagan tried to gather her wits and swiped at her wet cheeks with the back of her hands before looking at Lancelot expectantly.

"I apologize if I interrupted some tender moment between the two of you." His tone implied otherwise. "I am to take you to your rooms now. You must be tired. Come." He turned and started off, looking back at her pointedly to make sure she knew she was supposed to follow him.

Reagan turned to say good night to Tristan only to find that he was no longer in the corridor; the dark shadows seemed to have swallowed him whole.

Reagan managed to stay a few paces behind Lancelot as they made many twists and turns. She watched curiously as Lancelot seemed to mold himself in between the flickering warm light of the torches and the strange darkness of the shadows as they went. Somehow the effect seemed to suit him, she thought idly.

Their pace slowed and they eventually stopped at a closed door. He reached into his pocket and produced a key. Lancelot seemed somewhat hesitant before putting it in the lock and giving it a solid turn.

"I want to apologize for the state of the, uh, … room." He said somewhat shortly before he pushed open the door and stepped aside for her to enter. This was his room, she soon realized as she crossed the threshold. She had not expected him to take her to his quarters; Reagan was led to believe she would have a set of her own.

She took in her surroundings with a great sigh of dismay. The room was a complete and utter disaster.

Reagan took three steps and trod on a forgotten pair of breeches on the floor then tripped. She managed to catch herself just in time before she took a spill. If she had learned anything that was certain this night, it was that while Lancelot appeared to be the epitome of a debonair gentleman in public, as she first believed, he was an utter slob in private.

Clothes were strewn about the floor haphazardly, the bed unmade and rumpled, the blankets strewn half on half off the mattress. Dirty boots had been kicked off willy-nilly, a pair here, a pair over there. A large trunk sat open at the foot of the bed, displaying it's ravaged interior, articles of clothing hanging over the edges clearly forgotten. She idly ran her hand along a table's surface in between forgotten bowls and plates, frowning when her fingers came away with a thick layer of dust. Reagan gave Lancelot a questioning glance, but he simply shrugged his shoulders before closing the door behind him.

"The least I can do is start a fire for you," he said as he pushed his way inside, going to the cold fireplace and stacking logs inside it. Reagan prayed he had not closed the flue before he left- the last thing this smelly, dirty room needed was to be filled with smoke.

Not only was Lancelot a pig, she thought disgustedly, glancing at her fingers, but he apparently lived in squalor as well. Soon enough he had fire burning slowly in the hearth and she had somehow managed wipe the grime completely from her fingers, leaving a dirty smear on the front of her tunic in the process.

They turned in unison to stare at each other, the awkward and stilted silence between them only increased as they looked at each other. They had not been in the same room together for days, had not spoken in days, and now she knew the reason why.

Neither one was willing to take the first step to extend that proverbial olive branch again. His eyes strayed to the bed before looking back at her sheepishly; Reagan narrowed her eyes and cleared her throat pointedly.

"Where will you sleep?"

Again he shrugged. "There are many places I can sleep," he replied with a sardonic grin. "Though, most of the time I don't need much."

Reagan folded her arms across her chest, getting tired of his obvious and distasteful innuendo. "Now that you've gotten your way, and your all-mighty Arthur has relieved me of my duties as your squire and placed me instead as your ward, do you honestly think I'm going to let you bed me again?"

He stood straighter with each word, the mocking amusement on his features wiped clean when she finished. "Did I invite you into my bed, Reagan?" he asked his tone menacing as he slowly rounded the other side of the bed toward her. "Because I sure as hell don't remember it. Don't take your anger out on me simply because I'm following orders."

"Ha! Imagine that, Sir Lancelot following the king's orders. It's the only thing you can be depended upon to do!" She shot back as he finally stood before her, his eyes glinting feverishly. Reagan knew once again that she was pushing him ever closer to losing that temper of his, but somehow she could not help herself.

"Do you think this is easy for me?" he asked lowly. "Having been given the task of husband hunting for you?" Reagan grimaced at the word husband and stood her ground at his steady advance. He was using his strength and height to intimidate her and it was working, but she would be damned if she let it show. "Because let me inform you, lady, that it is the absolute last thing I want to do."

"Do you think _I_ want this?" She raged, pushing herself away from the table, refusing to let him twist the situation to his own benefit. "Do you think I've wanted any of this? None of this has been of my own making! _None. Of. It_." Punctuating each one of the words with a finger jab into his chest to drive her point home.

"Yet, I have bore it and I have endured, and you, sir, can go to the devil if you think for one second I will make this task easy for you."

"You forget, Reagan, that the devil and I have been bedfellows for a long time. You are my charge and while you remain so you will do as I bid, _understood_?" Lancelot warned, his tone malicious, as he stared down at her, unfazed by her show of temper.

"And if I refuse? What would you do with me then, Lancelot?" she asked, deliberately changing her tone and pushing herself closer to him. "Would you beat me? As my guardian, it is well within your rights." Taking a desperate chance, she reached for him, and he paled as she grabbed for his hand, folding down each of his fingers until they formed a fist to prove her point.

Lancelot's puzzled gaze roamed her face before she released his hand only to place both of hers across his chest growing very bold in her taunting.

"Or will you walk away again? Turn around and lock the door behind you. Trying your best to forget that you ever laid eyes on me and touched me with wicked hands in the darkness?" Reagan whispered, almost breathless with anticipation as he leaned in ever closer to her as if he too felt the same undeniable pull between them.

"Believe me, my lady, as much as I try I will never forget that night."

Her hopes were dashed quickly, as he grabbed for her wrists and removed her hands from his chest. Pushing her a bit too forcefully away from him, she stumbled backward against the table, upsetting a few of the bowls. Reagan would not have recognized the scornful quirk of his lips were it not for the diabolical flash in his eyes.

"Do not play with me, girl. You have done enough of that in the past."

Reagan felt a miserable laugh sticking in her throat. "Yes, so it would seem, and I shall pay for my sins now. You'll see to that, no doubt." She moved slowly and quietly to the bed and sank down on the mattress, feeling as if she'd never gain control of her life again.

She was acutely conscious of his large dark form as he picked some of the blankets off of the floor before quickly walking to the door. Reagan turned to watch as he pulled the key from his pocket again.

"This is where we left off, isn't it?" she asked quietly, her voice barely perceptible in the cluttered room. "Me throwing myself at you and you forcing me away. Always pushing me away. I thought I understood before, but now I don't know."

Reagan dragged a shaking breath into her aching lungs. "There is nothing to stop us now. Nothing in the way of us finding out if we are… if we could be… I am no longer your squire, why did you not ask for me?"

Reagan watched as he placed a big hand on the door, bowing his head downward as if searching for the right answer.

Lancelot sighed audibly and set his broad shoulders before he turned to look at her with guarded black eyes. "I swear to you that I will do everything within my power to keep you safe." Reagan felt her face go white, ashamed at her feeble response to yet another one of his dismissals.

"And what if Rullus still finds me?" She asked, her voice tight, the worry unmistakable.

"Then I will hunt him down and kill him," he replied darkly. A moment of mutual understanding passed between them that seemed to fill the charged silence. Reagan closed her eyes to shield her tears from him, took a deep breath, and heard the click of the lock turning as Lancelot shut the door behind him.

She had absolutely no doubt that he would make good on his promise.

* * *

Ivy wrapped her threadbare shawl tighter about her shoulders, keeping her head down as she picked her way through the cobbled streets and headed straight for her quarters. She knew the path from the healing rooms quite well and she was more than proficient in avoiding drunkards and soldiers with wandering hands along the way.

Though it was getting dark fast, it was still light enough out that she could see the night guards taking to their posts for the rest of the evening. Ivy watched them and felt herself sigh at the familiar sight; it was good to be back home.

Taking care of the sick and wounded always made her feel she had a purpose, and the people of Camelot had come to trust in her abilities as a healer, making her return a welcome one.

It was wonderful to be back in the healing rooms, listening to Dagonet grumble to himself as he went about his work. She made a mental note to make sure she put in orders with Darra--one of the cooks--to deliver Dagonet his meals. Without them the man would not think to eat and he looked to have lost weight since she'd left.

Ivy enjoyed helping Lucan with his studies when she could, listening to his endless chatter as she sorted through her ever-depleting stores of herbs and fretted about how she was to make it through the winter with their garden in the sorry state it was currently in.

But above all else, she smiled to herself, Ivy was truly happy for the first time in memory.

Pushing open her door, she quickly and quietly stepped into her rooms. Ivy stopped suddenly, the light from a single candle flickering on her table catching her eye. She never left candles burning while she was away and she approached the table slowly. Beside the candle was a tightly wrapped parcel.

Ivy reached out to tentatively touch it, her hand seeming to have a mind of its own. Smiling, she snatched the package up, turning around and looking about to see if her enigmatic admirer had lingered and feeling a strange and profound disappointment when she realized she was alone.

Shedding her shawl, Ivy sat down heavily in her chair, turning the thing over in her hands a few times before she finally decided to open it.

Pulling at the red ribbon that had been tied so carefully around it, she unwrapped the bundle. The flutter of loose parchment caught her eye as the fabric unfurled. Bending down to pick it up, she turned over the small square of paper to find no name, no note, only a single image of a heart tenderly scratched into the paper with a piece of charcoal. Its wiggly lines and haphazard shape brought tears to her eyes.

Pressing her hand to her mouth she smiled through her tears and gently laid the love note aside. Shaking out the garment, she realized it was a wrap, made from the softest green wool she'd ever touched with threads of a lavender shade woven throughout it.

It was beautiful and before she could stop herself she brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply hoping it might still carry even a whiff of her admirer's elusive sent.

"Do you like it?" A deep voice asked, cutting through her reverie. Ivy gave a great squeak of surprise and almost fell out of her chair at the question. She turned around so fast she almost upset the candle. Barely righting it in time, she stood and brushed at her skirts nervously before looking up.

There he stood, just as he had on that spring day so many months ago, impossibly handsome with a bashful smile and a wicked glint in his grey eyes as he looked at her. A handful of limp, yet utterly endearing wildflowers clutched in his good hand, and this time Ivy did not feel the urge to slam the door in Galahad's face.

His smile faltered somewhat when she failed to answer, as Ivy had actually forgotten the question. "If you don't like it I can always bring you another. Anything's got to be better than that threadbare piece of cloth you keep wearing," Galahad offered, stepping inside and reaching for the object in question. Ivy immediately tugged it out of his grasp.

"No, I like it!" she said a bit too sharply, clutching the gift to her chest.

"Good." A roguish smile curved those lips of his and Ivy caught herself staring. Blinking back a wave of something she'd not felt in a very long time, she tried to look affronted.

"I did not invite you in!"

"Oh, well…I…" Galahad mumbled and looked around as if he had no idea how he came to be inside standing directly in front of her.

"Here," he thrust the bouquet at her as if to distract her. Ivy glared at it, fighting the urge to smile. She graciously accepted his proffered offering, plucking the sad little flowers out of his too tight grasp.

Taking her time finding just the right place to put them, she felt Galahad's eyes follow her every move as she put the flowers in a cup and placed them dead center in the middle of her small table. Satisfied, Ivy took a breath and turned back to her company.

"Thank you," she said sincerely and he gave her a small smile. She motioned to the table suggesting he should make himself comfortable. "Please sit. I have a small pitcher of wine, would you care for some?"

Failing to cover his surprise at her invitation, it took him a couple of seconds before he realized she was serious. Gathering cups and the wine, she placed a cup at each chair and poured them half full, waving her hand before her indicating he should sit.

Galahad looked back at her that bashful grin returning once more and she felt her heart leap into her throat at the look. Oh, what this man could do to her with just one look was astounding. His eyes strayed to the small piece of parchment and the forgotten red ribbon that lay next to his wine.

"I see you got my note."

"Yes, I did. Is it a habit of yours to break into women's rooms when they are not residence?" Galahad choked on a sip of his wine at her question and Ivy hid her grin behind the rim of her cup.

"I did not break in. I…paid a laundress to slip the package in when she was returning your wash. Gawain helped me tie the ribbon. I drew that." He finished, pointing at the crooked little heart.

"Yes, I figured as much." She said, reaching for the picture and feeling a smile cross her face despite herself. Placing the parchment down, her smile vanished.

"How is your shoulder?"

"Healing," he answered just as crisply.

"Good." Ivy said somewhat stiltedly, watching as he took three great gulps of his wine, finishing the cup and setting it down roughly on the table.

He watched her intently for a few moments and Ivy felt herself blush, completely unsettled beneath his scrutiny. Suddenly and without warning, Galahad pushed himself out of the chair, walked over to her side of table, hauled her up in one swift movement and planted a kiss on her that made her toes curl in her slippers.

When their lips parted, Ivy felt herself lean toward him, her eyes slowly sliding shut as she waited for him to kiss her again. She was determined this time to really enjoy herself and not be caught unawares. Blinking her eyes open in shock when nothing happened she realized that he no longer held on to her but was once again at her door.

A bright and furious sense of indignation shot through her at his smug look.

"I'll be calling on you again tomorrow," Galahad stated with a hit of arrogance.

"Who says I'll be home?" She shot back, hands on her hips, glaring at him.

"You will be," he replied confidently.

"Then maybe I won't let you in."

He grinned at her, his face flushed and his eyes bright and Ivy felt herself falling deeper in love with him at that particular moment.

_Arrogant, impossible, foolish, handsome, endearing knight!_

"You will." And his tone left no room for argument, not that Ivy had any. She had to concede that he was right, she would let him in.

He opened the door turned to look at her, took one step out, and, misjudging the stair, stumbled a bit. Ivy could not stop a hysterical little giggle from bursting forth when he, completely flustered, righted himself.

"You fool!" She shouted after him, unable to stop her bright smile as she leaned against her door watching as he began to walk away with more than a little swagger in his step.

"I'm a fool, yes, but you love me for it!" Galahad called back and Ivy had to agree with him.

Yes, indeed, she did love him.

**AN: ***_**Grins***_** I loves me some cute, swaggering, clumsy Galahad. Tristan's confession to Reagan was a bit of a surprise -even to me- but he insisted I let him say his peace. As for the dynamic between them, well, he meets his match eventually and she'll throw him for a loop (but that's another story). Reagan has always been destined for someone much more, well... difficult. **

**Okay, so this chapter was a bit of a ying/yang. Not much happened plot wise, but the characters are moving into place nicely. The story will start rolling in 21 so watch out. The next chapter has a much lighter note. It is a sort of "break in the clouds" for two of the characters. Someone finally lets his softer side come out a bit. There is lots of snarky dialogue in between though :) **

**Chapter 21 is finished so look for it soon! I hope this chapter was worth the wait. **

**Until 21, HAPPY READING! **


	21. Chapter 21

**No money is being made from this. I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story. I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**Many thanks to the beta team for this one. I felt really bad sending them such a long chapter, but they plowed through it like the fantastic editors that they are. I appreciate your fortitude. Believe me :)**

**For Maid Maleen, who I think sometimes understands these characters better than I do. **

**And for Hazelef, just know that it's bound to get better- It sounds trite, but it's true.**

**I'll shut my trap now...  
**

"_Love is not blind, it sees more not less; But because it sees more it chooses to see less__**." -Unknown**_

Chapter 21

Reagan awoke rather reluctantly, to a muffled sound coming from outside the door. Unfolding her stiff limbs, she could not remember crawling up on the bed and dragging one of the scratchy, heavy blankets over herself the night before. Reagan pushed herself up, the sudden movement making her head throb in pain before she sneezed, stirring up a latent cloud of dust.

Stumbling over the debris on the floor, she managed to reach the door before she heard the sound again. Someone was fumbling with the lock on the other side.

A brief moment of fear shot through her, bringing her fully alert. She rifled around for a second, managing to dislodge her dagger from her boot, before she gave the lock a vicious twist and threw the door open.

After the night she'd just had, Reagan was fully prepared to give who ever was on the other side what for.

"Oh, my!" A woman gasped, clearly startled before she pushed two younger girls behind her back instinctively. Reagan blinked at the women with sleep-deprived eyes, strongly resisting the urge to rub them in case she was imagining things.

It took her several long and confused moments to realize that perhaps these women were not a threat as she'd first thought.

"It has a weapon, ma'am." One of the younger girls whispered in fear, her eyes wide as she watched Reagan slowly begin to lower her dull little dagger.

"I can see that, Ada," the older woman snapped in a tone that clearly stated that she thought Ada should be quiet. Plastering a genteel smile on her soft round face the woman cleared her throat and gave a polite bow.

Completely confounded at their presence, Reagan's outstretched hand fell limply at her side.

"Good morn', my lady." The woman said, clearly relieved that Reagan had stopped pointing her knife at them. "His lordship has sent us. He thought you might be wantin' ta bathe and be desirin' some fresh…" she paused her voice trailing as she took in Reagan's ragged tunic and loose, ill-fitting breeches, a look of obvious disapproval in her brown eyes.

"Yes, well, we're here ta help ya." She finished before she barked; "Ada! Bitsy!" Reagan jumped at the woman's shrill voice, "get a move on!"

The younger girls scrambled to obey. Reagan watched in disbelief as the two wide-eyed maids stumbled in, staggering beneath their burdens of a tub, towels, sheets, embroidery frame, thread, fragrant oils, soaps, beeswax tapers, fruit, bedclothes and various other items that Reagan failed to count before it was all said and done.

Ada and Bitsy continued to gape at her as they finished filling the tub with ewers of steaming water. The older woman shooed them out, shutting the door in their faces. She awkwardly cleared her throat and looked at Reagan expectantly.

Feeling herself flush with embarrassment and clearly not knowing what to do next, Reagan curtsied to the woman and thanked her in a tight voice. The woman introduced her self as Wynn and curtsied back as was polite.

"No need to thank me, my lady. I'm only doin' what his lordship told me to."

"And his lordship is?" Reagan asked, finally gathering her wits.

"Why, Sir Lancelot of course. He woke me up in a terrible temper last night, claimed that you had to have these things first thing in the mornin'. So I says, I'll do my best." Wynn finished proudly.

Reagan glanced at the small wooden tub resting in the center of the messy room; it was filled with hot water, inviting curlicues of steam rising from it. Suddenly her skin felt itchy inside her clothes.

She looked at her pile of treasures with narrowed eyes. While she appreciated the thought, she was half tempted to throw some of the objects out the window completely just out of spite.

Just when she was convinced she could hate him wholeheartedly, Lancelot went and did something like this and it was almost impossible to stay mad at him.

"Beggin' your pardon miss, but would you like me to stay and help you dress when you're finished with your bathin'?" Reagan had to concede that she would love to be clean and don fresh clothes, but she had no way of getting her things from the servants quarters.

"Wynn, I would appreciate your help, but I have no clean clothes to change into. I'll make do with what I have," Reagan offered, hoping that her dismissal was kind enough. She'd not had servants growing up and she was not used to being waited on.

"Oh, his lordship has already taken that into consideration!" Wynn beamed at her, the expression filling in the lines on her face and making the woman look almost youthful. She scurried over to one of the piles that had been placed on the bed and withdrew a red bundle of fabric. She shook it out and presented Reagan with the garment.

"A dress?" Reagan asked flatly. Her ire returned full force at the proffered offering. "He has the gall to send me girl's clothes?" At her tone, Wynn looked at her confused for a moment, not understanding her displeasure at the fine dress.

"Excuse my askin', but you _are_ a girl, aren't you, Miss?" Once again Wynn's warm brown gaze raked up and down Reagan's unkempt form. Her tunic was stained and her boots too big for her feet, but there was no mistaking her gender beneath the ill-fitting clothing.

"Yes, Wynn, I'm a girl." Reagan replied wearily. Walking slowly toward the dress, she fingered the soft red wool. Dainty little flowers had been embroidered on the bodice and down the long sleeves with black thread. It was probably one of the most beautiful dresses Reagan had ever seen.

"That bastard," she muttered.

"_Miss!_" Wynn gasped, obviously shocked. Reagan felt herself color beneath the woman's disapproving gaze. Obviously this woman felt the need to defend her generous guardian.

"Apologies, Wynn, I meant no disrespect toward his lordship." She did, of course, but there was no way of explaining the complexities of her relationship with Lancelot without making herself look even worse in the woman's eyes.

"Yes, well," Wynn said briskly, accepting her false apology. "Lets get you into the bath. I'm sure you're wantin' to be gettin' on with your day." Before Reagan could utter one word of protest Wynn was ushering her toward the tub. In a few swift movements Wynn had stripped Reagan of her clothing, leaving her red-faced and fumbling to cover herself in front of the strange woman.

"Don't look so embarrassed girl!" Wynn chastised. "Get in that tub before you catch your death. I'll take care of the bed and start cleanin'. His lordship is not a tidy man, but he's a good man," she finished, with more than a hint of fondness in her voice.

How this no-nonsense woman seemed to care for Lancelot was a mystery, but she obviously saw something in him that made her gaze seem downright affectionate and motherly when she spoke of him.

Reagan made good use of a fresh chunk of soap, scrubbing her hair and skin until she was pink and trying her best to ignore the servant woman while she washed. Once she was finished, Reagan stepped from the tub, reaching for a towel. Before she could grab it, Wynn was right there, wrapping it around her, patting her shoulders gently with her calloused hands.

"There you are, Miss. Now, let's get you dressed." Wynn walked over to the fresh pile of clothing, handing Reagan a chemise made of a material so delicate and transparent she could see her hand through it. Next came the dress.

Wynn proved herself to be a proficient ladies' maid, settling the garment over her and tying the stays in the back so that the bodice fit snugly. The dress was slightly too long in the sleeves and skirt and a bit too tight across the chest, but she could live with it. Reagan brushed wisps of wet, wavy hair out of her eyes as the woman appraised her.

"Oh, you are a lovely thing." She said softly, "you'd be even lovelier if it weren't for that hair." Reagan felt herself smiling despite the backhanded complement.

"Thank you, Wynn," she replied demurely. "How about I help you?" The woman tried to brush her off, but Reagan would not have it any other way. If there was one thing she was good at aside from growing plants, it was cleaning. She had nothing better to do and now that she herself was clean, she felt a renewed sense of energy.

Reagan started by clearing the table of its clutter. Wynn made halfhearted protests to try and stop her but Reagan ignored them.

When that was done and the table's surface wiped clean of its layer of grime, Reagan decided the massive trunk at the foot of the bed was the next best place to start. Wynn began to clean the ashes out of the now cold hearth, absorbed in her task.

Kneeling before the trunk, Reagan began to rummage through the pile of fabric inside, trying her best to decide what was dirty and what was clean. One could learn a lot about a person through their clothing. Reagan stuck her hand in the trunk blindly and smashed her fingers on something hard and small.

Pulling her hand back reflexively, she shook it and stuck it back in, reaching for the mysterious object. Wrapping her fingers around it, she pulled it free and was astonished to find a small figurine of an animal hanging from a thin leather strap.

Reagan studied it closely: it looked to be a tiger or a lion or some other beast. It was highly stylized and hard to tell, but she could see that it was hand carved and that some of the paint on it had been worn away, exposing the shiny surface underneath. Particularly on the animal's face as if someone or thing had rubbed against it over and over again.

"What is that you have there, Miss?" Wynn's curious voice made Reagan jump guiltily and she closed her fist around the figurine.

"Nothing," she smiled innocently, carefully tucking it away in the folds of her skirt, thankful for the first time that she was wearing a dress. She'd found the figurine buried in this trunk beneath layers of clothing and for some inexplicable reason Reagan wanted to keep the tiny carved beastie.

When it was all done and the tunics, over-tunics and breeches were folded and placed back in the trunk, Reagan had not discovered many things about the man these things belonged to. Lancelot liked to wear black clothing; that much was obvious.

Aside from the tiny carved beast, she'd found two fragile hair combs made of bone, a silver belt buckle fashioned of delicately engraved metal leaves, a worn leather scabbard that had seen better days, and a piece of parchment so creased, brittle and faded that she couldn't make out the words.

This small pile of Lancelot's belongings raised more questions then they answered. One thing was certain: she found herself constantly going back to that small figurine. It easily fit in her palm and she liked the feel of the smooth surface of the worn bits beneath her fingers. Reagan stacked the other items back inside the trunk with care.

When she thanked Wynn for her hard work, the woman bobbed a curtsy and claimed it was the least she could do for his lordship. Reagan suppressed the urged to roll her eyes. Wynn promised she'd return tomorrow to help her with whatever else needed to be done, and assured her that a maid would be along to serve the midday meal.

Surveying the room and her newly acquired treasures, Reagan decided to make the best of a bad situation.

Grabbing the embroidery frame, thread, and one of the freshly folded tunics from inside the trunk she set to work. Totally absorbed in her task, Reagan didn't even realize that she was no longer alone until she looked up from stitching a blue winged butterfly and into the inquiring, fathomless dark eyes of her guardian.

Lancelot had crept in so quietly and soundlessly that her had heart lurched into her throat at his sudden appearance. Gone was the well-groomed man from the night before. Now he looked as if he'd just rolled out of whatever bed he'd managed to fall into. His overly long curly locks were rumpled. A new growth of beard deepened the shadow of his rugged jaw and his clothing sat slightly askew.

There was something strangely appealing about his disheveled appearance and Reagan had to fight back the urge to run her hands along his black over tunic, wanting nothing so much as to feel the muscles of his broad chest beneath her palms again. He cleared his throat pointedly, catching her obvious appraisal, and Reagan was helpless to stop a blush from creeping into her cheeks.

Lancelot held his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels as if he were impatient to keep moving.

"Somehow I don't think _you're_ the maid Wynn told me would bring me my meal." Reagan stated archly, laying her embroidery down in her lap. Calmly she watched as he quirked his lips in a half smile at her comment before looking about the now clean room.

"I see you received the provisions I had sent to you. I believe I managed to think of everything, " Lancelot countered, shamelessly eyeing the swell of her breasts beneath the bodice of the dress. Reagan returned his tight-lipped smile, lifting her embroidery for his inspection and effectively covering her chest.

"Yes. Do you like it?" She asked, thrusting the large blue butterfly-sewn dead center onto the back of one of his black tunics-at him.

Reagan waited expectantly as he seemed to choke back a curse at her handiwork before he pushed the embroidery frame away from his face. A deep scowl ruined his good looks for a moment, before his eyes fell on something sitting on the table, erasing the expression almost instantly.

"Where did you get that?" Lancelot asked sharply. Reagan lifted it and let the tiny animal swing on its leather strap in front of her before she answered.

"I found it while I was cleaning," she stated simply, watching the thing swing back and fourth as she gestured.

"You were cleaning _inside_ my trunk?" Lancelot asked, clearly irritated that she'd taken it upon herself to trifle with this possessions. His fingers twitched at his side as if he wanted to grab for it but something held him in check.

"Well, if you hadn't left it open for all and God to see I wouldn't have felt the need to clean inside it." Reagan watched him with a curious eye.

Lancelot looked torn between anger and surprise at her discovery and she snatched the figurine back. Clutching it to her chest she looked up at him with wide eyes, afraid for a moment that he would reclaim it.

"Do you want it? Does it mean a great deal to you?" She asked quietly, watching as his expression softened before returning to that familiar hard look she was growing accustomed to.

"The question is, why do _you_ want it?"

Reagan considered the question for a second. "I don't know really. I just know that for some reason I want to keep it." He looked at her, studied her with those dark eyes and she felt something shift between them in the space of a heartbeat.

"You had a choice of trinkets to pick from within that trunk and yet you choose that," he said more to himself than to her. Lancelot's tone seemed almost pleased, forcing Reagan to let her guard down and release her death-like grip on the tiny beastie.

Holding her hand out and offering it back to him she said, "You can have it back if it means so much to you. I only presumed that you did not care for it, having buried it with in the confines of your dirty clothing."

That small quirk of his lips returned once more at her words and to her complete surprise Lancelot reached out and folded her fingers gently back around it with his own, lingering a second longer than was necessary against hers.

"You keep it. Think of it as a talisman," he said, his voice deep and low and Reagan felt herself swallow hard at the gesture.

"Against what?"

"It will protect you when I cannot. The Gods know it's saved me a time or two." She stared at the figurine sitting in her palm and found the courage to look back up at him.

"Thank you." Reagan found herself returning his smile, fearing her heart was in her eyes. The spell was broken quickly. Once again he cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable and Reagan once again found herself struggling to keep up with his shifting moods.

"Talismans aside, I have come here with a purpose." Lancelot stated as if their previous conversation held no real merit and Reagan felt herself glower at his tone.

How he managed to ruin perfectly good moments between them on a regular basis was beyond her.

"There is something I would like to show you."

"Have you found me a husband already, my lord?" Reagan asked, wondering how he had managed so quickly to complete his duty. Some tiny part of her hoped he had, while another much larger part of her hoped he hadn't.

"Reagan, it's been fifteen hours. Even I can't work miracles in so short a time," he gently chided.

"What is this mysterious thing you'd like to show me?" She asked, getting up from the table and finding her boots where Wynn had placed them next to the hearth.

"You'll find out soon enough." Lancelot replied, watching her every move beneath the shelter of his long lashes.

"Fine." Reagan was getting tired of his obscure statements. She sat on the edge of the bed and hiked up her skirts in a very un-lady like fashion, so she could pull on her boots. Lancelot made a strange throaty sound that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed groan at the action and Reagan realized much too late what had caused it.

She'd always known he liked her legs, she'd just never realized exactly how much.

She looked up at him and tried to feign indignation at his stare, but there was something in his eyes that made her stop. Her heart began to race at the look and she wanted so much at that moment to tease him a bit, use what little power she had over him to make him squirm

"Apparently I didn't think of everything," he offered, his eyes focusing on her feet. The sound of his softly spoken murmur made her heart react in a peculiar way. Feeling herself shiver, she pushed down her skirts, shielding her calves from his burning gaze, and wriggled her toes in the familiar confines of her boots.

"I like these boots, there is nothing wrong with them."

"They're too big for you, they always have been," Lancelot replied, looking as if he were trying to fight a smile and losing, as she stood and clomped her way clumsily toward her discarded belt and scabbard, her skirts hindering her in the process. Suddenly she longed for the freedom of her breeches and wondered when she'd get her old clothes back.

"Big they may be, but at least they belong to me," Reagan added, with a hint of pride in her voice, stopping her movements long enough to ask, "when can I retrieve my belongings from the servant's quarters?"

He didn't answer right away and Reagan looked up from tying the belt across her hips, sliding the tiny figurine across the strap until it dangled comfortably against her thigh. She placed her rusty sword into the scabbard and adjusted it before she managed to look back at him.

A dawning sense of realization hit her and Reagan knew the reason for his uncharacteristic silence.

"What did you do with my things?" It was more of an accusation than a question and Lancelot tried in vain not to make eye contact with her.

She waited, rather patiently in her opinion, for an explanation. It was almost five whole seconds before Reagan felt that familiar burst of temper flare within in her at yet another of his misguided, highhanded actions.

"My lord, I would like my things back." She managed to say, surprised at how calm she sounded.

"You have no need of them now. I can provide you with what ever you could possibly want." Lancelot's voice dripped with arrogance and Reagan wanted to bash him over the head with something hard.

"Where are they now?"

"Gone."

Reagan was unable to stifle a gasp of fury, "Gone where?"

"Just gone," and he offered no more than that.

"You had no right! Those were my things!" She said sharply and she felt herself flush hot in her anger.

"You have new things now. _Better_ things."

"But I want _my_ things!"

"Reagan," he growled, growing impatient with her, dark eyes flashing at her tone.

"What's done is done. I will not apologize for disposing of those foul garments." Lancelot pushed open the door and stiffly motioned for her to step outside. Reagan sucked in a great breath through her nose and forced down her biting retort. Stomping her way outside, she glared daggers at him as he made a great show of locking the door behind him.

Without waiting for him, she started off feeling exceedingly peevish and irritated.

"Where are you going?"

"Outside, anywhere away from you!" she called back, looking over her shoulder, satisfied that he looked just as bedraggled and annoyed as she felt.

"You're going the wrong way," Lancelot stated, managing to catch up with her. He grabbed onto her upper arm and steered her in the opposite direction.

Once he had them both outside he let go of her. Reagan put some much needed space between them and started off at a brisk pace, even more annoyed that after a few moments of walking she was breathing hard from her exertions and he was completely unfazed, keeping pace with her easily.

She tried not to notice the stares, the obvious ogling some of the villagers. It was impossible not to hear the murmurs, or feel the blatant undercurrent of curiosity, as the pair of them strode out in the sunlight, heading for God knew where. Feeling as if a hundred pairs of eyes were on them at once, her stride finally slowed.

"Why do they keep staring at you?" Reagan asked, giving him a sideways glance.

She quickly became aggravated again at how beautiful his hair was when the sunlight fell upon it, giving his curling black locks a burnished hue and making her fingers itch once again to feel the softness of it between them.

"They're not staring at me. They're staring at you." Lancelot did not looked pleased at all when he said this. Instead, his hand tightened reflexively on the hilt of his sword and he glared deliberately at passersby.

"At me?" Reagan squeaked, surprised. "Why?"

"My guess is that there aren't that many beautiful women stomping throughout the fort with swords strapped to their hips, looking as if they'd rather lop my head off as soon as be seen with me--Vanora notwithstanding." Before she could even grasp the fact that he referred to her as beautiful, he yanked her to his side possessively.

"Stay by me and keep the pace." Lancelot said shortly, the death-like grip on his sword making his knuckles turn white. Reagan couldn't find it in herself to argue and allowed him to pull her along briskly, listening to him murmur to himself intently.

"Damn vipers," he said under his breath and she slid a glace in his direction, amazed to find that scowl returning full force. Instead of annoying her as it usually did, this time she found it rather endearing.

Her legs kicked at her skirts as their stride ate up great patches of earth. Reagan managed to catch herself twice, barely avoiding a fall. Suddenly reminded of his high-handedness at disposing of her clothes, without her permission, her anger resurfaced. Any gentle feelings she'd had for him a moment ago were gone and she felt her own features twist in a sour expression.

They quickly passed the stables and Reagan couldn't ignore the wolf-whistles coming from its general direction. She turned around and glared at Ganis and Lucan leaning against their pitchforks grinning like mad at her.

Gilly was next to them, although his expression was not nearly as amused. He looked as if someone had smacked him in the face with a dung-covered shovel, his eyes practically bursting from his round ruddy face, making her snort with laughter at his expression.

"I swear to Gods, if that Gilly so much as breathes on you, I will lay him flat. I don't give a damn who's son he is," Lancelot growled. Reagan wanted to point out that given her recent combat experience, she was fairly confident that she could defend herself against Gilly. Judging the thunderous expression on Lancelot's face though, God help the boy if he ever tried anything.

"Maybe you should have thought twice before you disposed of my other garments so hastily." She managed to give him a guileless smile and he pretended to ignore her toothsome grin.

"Its not the damn dress," he muttered. "You've always looked too comely for your own good."

"Always?" she prompted as he continued to drag her along. "You seemed unaware of my apparent beauty that day we met in the stables."

"Think what you like about that day in the stables. The truth is, I was torn between beating you soundly for your blatant insolence and dragging you into one of the stalls; tearing your clothing off with my teeth and ravishing you within an inch of your life."

Reagan felt her face flame hotly at the image his words conjured. "Believe me at the time I was disgusted with myself for even thinking about the latter. Considering you were supposed to be a _boy_," he finished with a slight sneer.

"Aren't you glad I wasn't? How my deception must have eased your conscience," her voice was drenched in sarcasm.

"Yes, lucky me," Lancelot replied with a caustic twist of his lips. He pulled her to a stop in front of an ivy-covered wrought iron gate behind a set of massive buildings Reagan was unfamiliar with.

The gate squeaked loudly on its hinges as Lancelot pushed it open. He politely stepped aside and motioned for her to enter. Glancing at him skeptically, Reagan walked forward and was pleasantly surprised at what she saw.

It was a garden of good size, hidden behind a high fence that connected into the back of one of the buildings. Reagan took a few slow steps toward it, unable to stop herself from reaching out and fingering a yellow tipped late-blooming rose; the petals felt like silk against her skin. Looking back at Lancelot she smiled widely. He grinned back as if her expression was contagious.

Reagan took in her surroundings with a keen eye. The garden, while large, was poorly kept. A few late blossoming plants sat at the edges, while weeds ran waist deep and grew rampant throughout the black soil, choking back some of the weaker, less invasive plants.

"I know it's not much, by the look of it. But it's yours if you want it." He said, his voice drifting toward her over the sounds of the birds chirping in the trees near by.

"You're frowning. I thought this would please you," He looked crestfallen at her lack of a response. That familiar air of arrogant confidence that seemed to shroud him was gone, having been replaced by a look so defeated, Reagan thought she was imagining it.

At that moment, looking at that sad little garden with its single late blooming rose, Reagan felt a mix of conflicting emotions besiege her. After a day full of surprises some good, some not so good, Reagan didn't understand Lancelot or his motives. Looking back over the course of the time they'd been together, maybe she'd only fooled herself into believing she knew him.

All she had been certain of was a posturing, preening, overbearing, manipulative creature she continued to provoke on a regular basis. This teasing, protective, possessive, bewildered, and strangely deflated Lancelot with the soft eyes was a complete stranger to her. Perhaps he'd been right along; perhaps she didn't know the real Lancelot at all.

"It's not that I'm not grateful, believe me, my lord, this is the nicest thing anyone has done for me. Truly."

"Then why do you look as if you've just fallen into another pile of horse shit?"

"Because I don't understand why you're doing this."

"You want me to defend my decision to provide you with the one thing you've always wanted? I thought you'd be happy about this," he snapped, jumping to the defensive.

Reagan sighed and felt a light breeze blow through the wisps of hair at her nape. She pinched the bridge of her nose and fought down the urge to snap right back at him.

"I'm not trying to argue with you. It seems that all we do any more is yell at each other. You have to admit last night was a prime example of how we get along."

"What does last night have to do with today?" He asked, crossing his arms across his chest, a formidable and dark look crossing his handsome features.

"Nothing. Everything. Quite frankly I'm completely sick of fighting with you every second of the day," she said, her tone firm. Reagan feared they were indeed fighting again, when he didn't seem to unbend at her words.

He took a deep breath and seemed to hesitate, those soft eyes never once leaving her face. "I recall an instance when we got along perfectly, although thinking back on it there was little need for words at the time." Reagan felt her face color brightly at his gently spoken comment.

Leave it to Lancelot to embarrass her when she was trying to make a point.

"Aside from that interesting and educational encounter, you have to admit we don't get along. I don't think we ever have. You have been kinder to me today than you have in the whole of our acquaintance; forgive me, my lord, if I find your attentions a bit suspect. "

"But you do _like_ the garden?" He asked, completely ignoring her previous observations. Reagan sighed again and smiled reluctantly.

"Yes, my lord, I believe you already know that." And she liked him, too, so much more than she had previously; it was almost hard for her to believe this was the same man who had tortured her on the training grounds so many weeks ago.

"Good." Something shifted behind his eyes and Reagan felt herself sliding into unknown territory. It was a strange but welcome feeling compared to the tension that had been between them previously.

"Peace between us, Reagan," he offered holding out his hand in a friendly gesture. She blinked at his out stretched hand. "I am not a man who is fond of regret. With you there have been many moments that I am not proud of." His uncharacteristic open and honest admission stunned her into silence.

Without thinking, she took his proffered hand and he turned it over. Bowing politely, he placed a gentle kiss to the back of her hand that sent a current sizzling down her spine. He grinned up at her through the thick veil of his lashes as if he were completely aware of his power over her, and for the first time Reagan understood how he had earned his notorious reputation.

"My lord, you can let go of my hand," she said, irritated that her voice had a slight tremble to it. He released her, albeit reluctantly, and turned away. She watched him lean against the fence post with a lazy grace that belied the coiled strength in his body.

There was something between them now that hadn't ever been there before, a thin, tenuous thread of trust that seemed to change the very air around them.

Reagan watched the sun sink behind a cloud and took in her new surroundings, trying in vain to sort out her feelings. She took a couple of turns around her small garden, feeling the figurine Lancelot had given her bounce against her thigh lightly.

Touching that single yellow rose again, Reagan felt hopeful for the first time. She even dared to go so far to suspect she might even be happy. She looked back at Lancelot, who continued to watch her with those dark mysterious eyes. Every once in a while his gaze straying to her thigh and the tiny beastie that rested there, a small smile playing on his beautiful lips.

"Do you think we might try something?" Reagan asked a clear note of hesitation in her voice.

"We might, " he offered pushing his big body away from the fence post.

"Do you think we could try to be friends?" He blinked slowly in reaction to her question as if he was confused by it.

"I've never been friends with a woman before," he said with a smile, somehow Reagan was apt to believe him, but she was willing to try it if he was. Lancelot beckoned her forward.

"Lets take it one day at a time and see where it goes." Reagan slipped her arm through his again and this time they left the garden together.

Turning their backs to the sun, Lancelot and Reagan had unwittingly blinded themselves to the stooped wiry figure that had crouched in the shadows behind the single massive tree. It scurried over the edge of the fence, disappearing in the throng of villagers to carry an urgent message to its master. It had witnessed their exchange with disgust and rancor. One thing was certain: the witch still lived, and it wouldn't be long before she burned for her crimes.

**AN: Well... there is chapter 21. Make of it what you will. It appears Reagan's past is finally catching up to her. As for Lancelot, perhaps he's seen the error of his ways? Something tells me this "friendship" thing isn't going to work out? What do you think? ;)**

** Thank you to everyone who took the time to review/read 21. I appreciate it so much. I aplolgize for my lack of replies lately. Work is sucking away at my soul. Ack. I hope this chapter makes up for everything.**

**A fair word of warning Chapter 22 will have a strong M rating. Be prepared. **

**Until then, Happy Reading!  
**


	22. Chapter 22

**No money is being made from this. I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story. I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**Thank you Beta Team- as always. You know who you are.**

**I'm apologize for the time in between updates. Real life is evil sometimes. There's fluff ahead... you have been warned. **

"_The moment we indulge our affections, the earth is metamorphosed, there is no winter and no night; all tragedies, all ennui, vanish,--all duties even."_** -****Ralph Waldo Emerson**

Chapter 22

Lancelot found himself roaming the battlements once again. Having forgone his evening meal, he desired instead to feel the restless wind in his hair and watch the pale moon rise as the sky turned a deep inky black. This celestial ritual had become his nightly escape.

He paced like a caged beast, his invisible chains wrapped tightly around him, impervious to his strong desire to be free of them. Grunting in frustration, he ran a hand through his tousled hair.

Lancelot was restless, he was disgruntled and he was exceedingly discontent for the first time in memory.

None of his old familiar vices held the same appeal they once did. The salacious sidelong looks from some of the more brave wenches made him want to recoil. Those women with their tight bodices and heavily perfumed skin no longer held the debauched charm they once did and their touch made his skin crawl in disgust.

He had no patience for the gaming tables. No matter the game, no matter the company, his temper eventually got the best of him every time and, as a result, a drunken Roman inevitably felt the sting of his fists.

Food tasted like ash in his mouth and the intoxicating lure of drink only made him even more keenly aware of his lack when he was deeply in his cups. Bors did not resist pointing out after a night of heavy drinking that he was becoming a right sodding bastard who wasn't any fun to be around any more. Given his sour disposition at present, Lancelot was reluctantly forced to agree with him.

Bors was not the only one who sensed a change in his demeanor, and Arthur began to pointedly observe that Lancelot was a lax guardian where his charge was concerned. Almost two weeks had passed and he was still unable to move himself to find Reagan a proper suitor.

Instead he languished in this sham of a "friendship" with his charge that began to wear away at his already thinning resolve. He struggled daily with his impulses to touch her. The unusual sense of calm he felt in her presence was extremely unsettling and the sound of her laughter made his chest constrict in such a way that he suspected he might be ill.

The most disturbing thing of all, however, was the fact that he sometimes found himself unable to hold her gaze for long.

It was almost as if he were afraid of the blue crystalline depths of her eyes and what he might see reflected back when Reagan looked at him. It shouldn't matter to him what she thought, but somehow it did, and when she met his gaze he felt stripped bare and vulnerable. It wasn't an emotion he was overly fond of. As much as he tried not to think of her, it was becoming impossible to do so. Feeling as if his entire world was slipping away from him, he ran his fingers through his tangled curls, he was momentarily temped to visit the tavern and drink away his frustrations.

Lancelot heard the sound of heavy, purposeful footsteps approaching. He turned his head, blinking slowly in acknowledgment of his unwanted company.

Turning back around he tried desperately to ignore Galahad's pointed and overly dramatic sigh as leaned forward and rested his arms on the stone ledge next to him. Lancelot gazed out over the wall to the darkening landscape below, trying and failing to tune out his friend's incessant foot tapping.

"Would you quit that racket!"

"The crops will have to be turned in a few weeks, the season is almost upon us," Galahad said his voice drifting toward him, completely ignoring Lancelot's biting comment about the foot tapping. Lancelot didn't give a damn about the crops but he found himself nodding in agreement. What was the point of bothering him if he wanted to discuss crop rotation?

"Gawain and I are going on a hunt in the morning," Galahad offered, leaving the invitation open ended.

"I'm in no mood for a hunt," Lancelot snapped, finding that familiar sense of disquiet stir inside him once more.

"Listen, I'm not one to stick my nose in your affairs-"

"Then don't." Galahad gave him a cold glare for the interruption.

"It might do you a bit of good to hear another perspective," he offered with a small closed-lipped grin. Lancelot fought down the urge to show Galahad exactly what he thought about his _perspective_ and forced himself to unclench his fist.

"I don't give a damn about your perspective."

"Well, if you weren't so bloody self-absorbed all the time, you'd realize that another perspective is exactly what you need!"

"I'm in no mood for a bleeding heart conversa-"

"Have you ever once stopped to think why that might be?" Galahad asked, cutting off his blustering effectively.

"No. And I don't give a damn what your opinion is." his companion looked at him with a knowing smirk that made Lancelot itch to punch him soundly for it.

"It's been how long now? More than a week since you were appointed the joyous task of husband hunting? Dare I ask how that's going?"

Lancelot didn't answer, because quite frankly he had no answer. Galahad's quiet laughter at his lack of a response was almost enough to push his temper toward that precarious edge. If Galahad hadn't been recovering from his shoulder wound Lancelot would have lunged at him. As it was, all he could muster was a disdainful shrug.

"I see she's wearing your amulet," Galahad observed, a cautious edge to his voice.

"Is she?" Lancelot asked, trying and failing to feign indifference.

"Is Reagan aware of what that amulet implies?" Lancelot's silence was all the answer Galahad needed. A grim look of determination settled on his features and if his companion hadn't been so distracted he would have noticed it.

"It's a lovely sight to behold isn't it, watching that amulet swing against her shapely thigh as she walks. I do have to say she's got beautiful-" Lancelot's control abruptly snapped as he grabbed for Galahad's collar, cutting his words short and hauling him away from the parapet. His anger burned bright and clear in his veins as a haze of red covered his vision.

If he had been of a sounder mind he would have noticed a shrewd expression flit across Galahad's features before Lancelot felt the satisfying crunch of bone cracking against his fist. The younger man stumbled backward clumsily in response, swiping at the blood that trickled from his lip.

"You have your own woman. You would do well to stay away from mine." Lancelot seethed through clenched teeth, trying and failing to get a grip on his temper as well as his tongue.

Galahad gave him a pained yet, sarcastic smile, "That's the crux of the problem, isn't it Lancelot? She's not your woman and until you do something about it Reagan's fair game."

The haze of red that had his blood boiling suddenly faded and Lancelot realized that he'd fallen like an asinine fool for Galahad's obvious provocation.

"By the Gods, Lancelot, do you have to have it spelled out for you? Arthur all but handed her to you and yet you continue to let your overwrought sense of duty distract you." His friend's face twisted in pain and disgust seconds before he spat on the ground. A tooth Lancelot's blow had managed to knock loose landed inches from his foot.

"Overwrought sense of duty?" Lancelot managed, bewildered, staring at the tooth and feeling a needling sense of guilt prick at his conscience.

"Don't change the subject, you ass. You either do what's right by that girl, or you go to Arthur and tell him that for the first time in your life you've failed to complete your duty, wash your hands of this ridiculous nonsense and let Reagan live her life."

Lancelot stared at Galahad, a riot of emotions swirling inside him: disbelief, menace, fury, anguish, and a burning desperate need not to disappoint Arthur.

But above all else churned a deep-seated fear that Galahad was right. That he was deliberately holding everything between himself and Reagan in limbo because he was too cowardly to act on his supposed honor and make her his wife. Too craven to accept the subtle change between them and finally put an end to his own self-inflicted torture.

Despite the complex twist of emotions he was feeling, at the very heart of things Lancelot knew without a doubt that his friend had a point.

"Neither you nor I are worth a damn. But Ivy loves me and I love her and for the first time in my bloody sad mess of a life I feel like I have a real future. I finally have something to look forward to. Don't you want that too?" His friend asked, starting at him intently.

Lancelot felt himself sigh dejectedly, "you can say what you like, but the sad truth of it all is that I'm _not_ you." Galahad actually had the audacity to scoff at his poor attempt to dissuade him.

"After all the trials Reagan's been through she's proven herself to be a strong girl. I've spent these last two months watching her and she's met one challenge after another. In my opinion Reagan should be bloody damn well allowed to make her own decisions and if you're the man she wants quit being a fucking idiot and accept her." Galahad finished on a hissing breath letting his obvious frustrations finally show.

"And if I let her down?" Lancelot asked the question before he could stop himself, letting a tiny crack in his façade bleed though.

"You won't."

He stood there blinking at Galahad wondering when and how it had come to this: When had Galahad become the wiser party? Somewhere in all of this the pup had finally grown up, and Lancelot in his apparent self-absorption had missed it. He watched as his friend gave him a lazy shrug and pushed himself away from the wall.

"You realize that, if you weren't such a stubborn ass I wouldn't have had to do this at all." A slight smile tugged at his already swelling lip, "You have to tell Reagan. You have to let her know what that amulet means to you." Lancelot shook his head at the words, feeling a huge uncomfortable bubble of anxiety settle in his chest.

"I didn't give it to her in the way you're thinking. I gave it to her as a talisman. Not as a betrothal offer."

"Well whether you like it or not, people are starting to talk. Gossip here spreads as fast as wildfire. I suspect that regardless of your posturing, you knew exactly what you were doing the moment you surrendered that amulet." Lancelot smiled despite himself and knew somewhere deep down that he had always intended to give that figurine to someone who meant a great deal to him.

He'd given up the ghost long ago of finding a wife and had at first forgotten about it. Had Reagan not been snooping that day in his trunk he doubted he would have ever have bothered to look for it.

It was just his luck that the only family heirloom he had amoung his possessions had struck her fancy. Like a fool, he felt his smile grow wider that bubble of anxiety expanding in his chest.

Galahad gave him a perceptive look over his shoulder as he made his way quickly to the steps.

"Oh, and Bors told me to tell you not to bother coming to the tavern until you've spent a goodly amount of time between your woman's thighs. He's not used to dealing with celibacy in any form, especially from you. And Vanora doesn't want to have to clean up after another one of your fights. According to her you've been banished." Lancelot waved him off.

"Van doesn't really mean that, I'm her best patron!" He called back feeling a silly grin split his face.

"No, you're not. And yes she really does mean it!" Was Galahad's faint reply before he disappeared around a corner, predictably heading in the direction of the healing rooms.

Suddenly feeling as if he were closest to the one thing he always wanted and at the same time further away than he could have ever imagined, Lancelot kicked himself away from the wall as he began to follow in the same direction as Galahad.

There was a purpose to his stride, a knot in his gut and a delicious sense of anticipation that overshadowed everything else.

Lancelot knew he had a lot of work to do if he was going to win himself a wife.

* * *

_One very long week later…_

It turned out that Reagan's sad and unkempt garden had once belonged to the healing rooms, and technically it still did. She should have suspected it given the sorry state it was in and Dagonet's exuberant and relieved welcome the next day when he found her knee deep in dark soil, pulling at weeds so thick she strained just to loosen them.

The obvious pleasure she gained while in working the garden gave Reagan a renewed sense of purpose that was well deserved.

Dagonet was so appreciative to have her on board that he was eager to supply his apprentice with whatever she might need to make the garden thrive once more. Reagan had never had provisions so readily at hand. Tools, seedlings and roots were made available to her so quickly she'd begun to think she was living in a dream.

Living in a dream she might still be. For the fragile and tenuous relationship with her guardian grew more interesting and challenging each day: interesting because she had learned more about Lancelot in a few short weeks than she had working side by side with him for months. Challenging because it was becoming harder and harder for Reagan to separate her heart from her head.

It had started out as small things. A teasing comment, a small genuine smile, a light seemingly innocent brush of fingertips against her arm, a tiny thoughtful gift left just for her, had soon escalated into such dangerous territory that Reagan found her self-control slipping whenever Lancelot came too near.

Despite everything, she still wanted him. If it were not for this barrier of friendship she had so wisely erected between them, she knew full well she would have allowed him liberties far beyond the scope of intimacy she was familiar with.

And that was a very big problem.

Reagan liked to think of herself as a girl of good sense and values and no matter how much she tried to repress the vivid, entangled memories of their one passionate night together, she was powerless to resist them.

Especially now, when he insisted that they dine together every night, made sure he was to escort her personally every where throughout the bloody fort, had begun to subtly touch her in the oddest, most benign places, and to gift her with those slow smiles that made Reagan flush with wicked desire.

She remembered too much, and unfortunately the longer her thoughts lingered, she was finding her desire for him harder and harder to stamp down.

It was a problem none to easily rectified and Reagan found herself on tenterhooks in his presence.

Gone was that scornful, calculating man of weeks prior. Now all that remained was this gentle, teasing, utterly devastating man who wreaked havoc on her senses whenever they were together.

Reagan could not understand the change in him but she was grateful for it nonetheless.

The garden soon became her respite, her break from the constant flush of need she couldn't seem to repress. She buried herself in her work, welcomed it and sometimes even managed to successfully block all thoughts of him from her mind.

"Don't you find it odd that not once has he made mention of the search to find me a husband?" Reagan asked idly one day digging a deep hole to transplant a small patch of myrtle. Ivy looked up from rooting around in her basket, a strange expression crossing her lovely features.

"That's because there is no need." Dagonet said, pushing his shovel deep into the earth around the base of a tree. The knight and the apprentice healer had decided to join her in the garden that afternoon. The weather was fair and Dagonet claimed he wanted to inspect the soil for medicinal purposes around the base of the gnarled elm that shaded most of the small plot that was her garden.

"_Dagonet_," Ivy sing-songed lightly in warning. Reagan caught her tone and looked up, her brows knotting in confusion. Ivy pretended to ignore her look and resumed her embroidery, the basket of herbs at her side forgotten as she concentrated on her stitches. Immediately Reagan's own suspicions planted firm roots of their own.

"What do you mean, 'there is no need'?" Dagonet stopped shoveling and looked slightly stricken as if he may have said too much and, judging by the look on Ivy's face, he had.

"If you know something I don't, I would greatly appreciate it if you would please inform me." Ivy and Dagonet exchanged looks that made Reagan's hackles rise.

"I thought you knew. Everyone knows," Dagonet offered hesitantly.

"Everyone _knows_ what?" Reagan asked, folding her arms, ignoring the fact that she managed to smear dirt all over the bodice and sleeves of her new green dress in the process.

"That you're already spoken for," Ivy finished as Dagonet had apparently lost his ability to speak. Reagan narrowed her eyes and felt something akin to the earth beneath her knees shifting out from under her.

"By whom?"

"Lancelot, of course," her friend stated weakly, ducking behind her embroidery to avoid Reagan's burning stare. A disbelieving snort of laughter escaped the poor girl before she realized that both Dagonet and Ivy were studiously avoiding her eyes and not joining in on the joke.

Which meant it wasn't a joke.

"You're…serious?"

"Why else would he give you that?" Dagonet asked shoving a finger in the direction of the tiny talisman dangling from her belt, his rough and striking features twisting in a look of confusion.

"Because I asked him for it." She replied in a whisper, already her heart was in her throat constricting her vocal chords.

"That, Reagan, is an ancient Sarmatian symbol; a family heirloom, not some tiny trinket of insignificance." Reagan fingered the tiny beastie that she had become so accustomed to wearing; she often forgot it was strapped to her hip. "There is no way Lancelot would have parted with it lightly. Hell, he carried it with him everywhere for years. That means more to him than all of his worldly possessions combined. You, dear girl, have been marked and no man is foolish enough to challenge Lancelot to what he has so clearly indicated belongs to him."

Reagan felt herself swallow hard, thinking about all of the times she'd caught him staring at the figurine, a look of pride and pleasure obvious in his gaze.

That damned bastard had claimed her and she'd fallen right into the trap, all too eager to be caught, and yet completely unaware of it at the same time.

She took a deep breath, feeling her heart race, "please tell me this is all a big farce. That what you're saying isn't true."

"We thought you had agreed to it. You've been wearing that thing daily, you had to be aware of what it meant." Ivy added, her embroidery lying forgotten in her lap, while Reagan's thoughts raced like lighting through her muddled, slightly shocked brain.

"You weren't, were you?" Ivy asked, as if that alone explained her apparent state of shock and lack of enthusiasm in finding out that Lancelot had finally done the right thing and accepted her. Reagan felt herself waver on the spot. She blinked back black dots that swam in her vision.

Ivy nervously pulled her hair over her left shoulder and Dagonet returned to his digging with renewed fervor at Reagan's lack of a response.

"How could I have been so stupid?" she asked more to herself than the others, pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead as if any further thoughts pained her. Ivy plaintively reached out to her in silent understanding and Reagan waved her away.

"He told me it was a talisman, that it would protect me when he could not." Reagan sucked in a deep shuddering breath, "Only a fool like me wouldn't have understood that clever message."

"You're not a fool, Reagan," Dagonet said softly, "a little naive but not a fool." His tone was surprisingly not patronizing.

"You mean to tell me that I'm being courted? And that all this time I've been completely unaware of it?" The incredulity in her voice was unmistakable. She stared at her two companions, willing herself to blink and finding herself unable to do so.

"Yes." Dagonet and Ivy replied in unison and at the word, Reagan turned away feeling her face flame in shock; she was flabbergasted at herself for being so foolish, so damn blind.

"I should have been more suspicious of him. God help me, I went right along with all of it. All of those wonderful gifts, this garden, the suppers, the offer to teach me how to ride a horse…he's been _wooing_ me!" Reagan choked in surprise, her voice sounding grating and scratchy even to her own ears.

Dagonet and Ivy stared at her in silent bafflement, which seemed to stretch Reagan's doubt so thinly that she began to think she had gone mad, seconds before another humiliating memory resurfaced.

"I told him I wanted to be friends," she whispered in misery, holding her face in her hands, angry that she'd been struggling with her feelings for days. Trying desperately to suppress the desire she felt for him.

When all the while he'd been playing her like a finely tuned lyre, plucking at her strings expertly: the caresses, the smoldering glances, and the warm welcoming smiles. Lancelot had been waiting for the opportune moment to strike his final chord.

This stark realization left her suddenly feeling completely and utterly bamboozled. The brief sense of shock that had held her suspended at this latest revelation wore off, leaving behind it only a weak, trembling kind of wonder that left no room for the embarrassment that creped in around the edges.

"I see that this revelation does not make you happy," Ivy said somewhat flatly.

She stood up and gently pried Reagan's dirt covered hands away from her face. "Reagan, you've been in love with that man for as long as I've known you. You finally have him where you want him. Are you going to stand here and continue to whine about your apparent good fortune when you should be doing something about it?"

Staring into Ivy's clear, no-nonsense gaze, Reagan realized she was right. So completely and utterly correct that she wanted to slap herself silly for making such a scene in front of Dagonet.

Pushing hair out of her eyes Reagan nodded. "Forgive me Ivy. I… I find this news quite surprising is all." She finished with a weak smile.

Ivy stood before her with her hands on her hips, the wind blowing about her skirts and fiery red hair looking the very picture of a beautiful and terrifying pagan goddess, making Reagan feel every inch the frumpy bumpkin.

"Reagan, you're a girl of many talents and amazing wit. I'm sure you can think of something." Ivy stated, the voice of reason in an otherwise topsy-turvy world.

"Yes, but what?" She asked, feeling as if there was an endless stretch of possibilities she could pursue, but not a one of them did she think she was brave enough to try. Ivy gave her a slow knowing smile and Dagonet shook his head at the look, setting down his shovel and escaping the garden quickly and wisely before he too became the victim of the scheming women.

"You could beat him at his own game," Ivy offered wiggling her eyebrows for effect. Suddenly Reagan liked that idea.

Who knew better than she did on how to turn the tables on Lancelot? _Yes, indeed,_ Reagan thought_, that, was a very good idea_.

**AN: I told you that friendship thing wouldn't work out :) I think Lancelot has his work cut out for him, Reagan is a force to be reckoned with, trust me on that.**

**I am not good at writing fluff. I hope I managed to pull it off with some semblance of literacy. I do sincerely hope this chapter can hold you over until the next one. **

**Chapter 23 is almost finished and will come soon. I promise.**


	23. Chapter 23

**No money is being made from this. I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story. I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**Thank you Beta Team- as always. You know who you are. Special mention to Leigh who's celebrating her first wedding anniversary! Congrats dear! :) **

**For Cricket05: Your talent amazes me. I can't begin to express how honored and pleased I was when you suggested making a wallpaper for me. I am a huge supporter of Fan Art and it fits the story beautifully and surpasses anything I could have ever dreamed up! Thank you dear! :) This chapter is for you! **

**Warning: THIS CHAPTER HAS A STRONG 'M' RATING. THIS MEANS IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 16 YOU SHOULD NOT BE READING THIS. SHOO! IF THE CONTENT OF THIS CHAPTER BOTHERS ANYONE PLEASE MESSAGE ME I WILL SEND YOU A PG-13 VERSION INSTEAD.**

"_Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, or hills, or fields, Or woods and steeply mountains, yield"__-_** Christopher Marlowe**

Chapter 23

Reagan drummed her fingers on the table impatiently. She made a quick grab for her goblet and drained it in one swallow. Feeling the stays of her red dress strain against her chest as she took another deep breath trying in vain to still the pounding of her heart.

She reached for the pitcher and filled her glass to the brim. _Liquid courage_, she thought with a smirk as the ruby red contents stared back at her mockingly. She would need every ounce of it, if she were to pull this off properly.

Surveying the room with a measuring eye, Reagan had to admit that together she and Ivy made an amazing team. When she recruited her friend to assist her she seemed more than eager to help, almost too eager, but Reagan was beginning to suspect that Ivy was just as frustrated about her current situation as she was, and in no time they had managed to transform Lancelot's quarters into a very inviting trap.

Reagan patted the tiny beastie before her; the figurine sat dead center on the table. Her accomplice stared back at her silently. It was the first time in two weeks that she had removed it from her person and she felt strangely naked without it.

Taking three big unladylike swallows of her wine, and she felt the alcohol settle warmly in her belly and a tiny little glow of relaxation crept in on the edges of her vision.

Feeling herself begin to lose sense of time, she thought that perhaps she should eat something, her stomach roiling with nerves as she stared at the fine meal spread out on the table before her.

Tearing off a hunk of bread, she stuffed a wad into her mouth and chewed with relish, her eyes constantly straying to the door. Any minute now he should return, and any second now she could finally put to rest the countless questions she planned to find the answers to tonight.

Just as she was about to finish her wine, a polite knock sounded on the door. Lancelot had been doing that a lot lately, knocking instead of just barging in like the owned the place--which, when she thought about it, he still did, technically. She called out for him to enter and when he crossed the threshold his expression was reward enough for her efforts.

He took in the subtle changes of the room with a keen eye, not missing a single detail. The numerous fragrant beeswax tapers lighting every corner with a rosy glow, the feast spread for two on the linen-draped table, a fire blazing merrily in the hearth before the opulent bed, its pristine sheets and sable coverlet turned down in brazen invitation.

Reagan and Ivy had set a very fine scene, indeed. Reagan pushed herself up from her seat to greet him and acutely felt the effects of her wine. Holding herself steady against the edge of the table, she felt a foolish grin spread across her face, and resisted the urge to smother the damnable expression. Lancelot turned to regard her with a kind of exquisite, smoldering look that made her feel a thousand times more beautiful than she probably was at the moment.

It was all she could do to retain some of her dignity and sanity before she melted into a puddle onto the floor from that look. Reagan forced herself to clear her throat, and spoke in surprisingly melodic voice: "Good evening, sir, I've taken the liberty of having supper prepared for you."

He gave her a wry grin; his gaze never leaving her face as he slowly and steadily came toward her.

"Yes, I can see that." Reagan felt the instinctive urge to step back at his approach. She regained her self-control and waited where she was, demurely folding her hands in front of her.

She watched as he pulled a cloth sack from his pocket and tossed it lightly from one hand to the other before he stopped, pulled out his own chair, and sat without ceremony. Reagan forced herself to move, sinking unsteadily into the chair, her eyes helplessly straying from his.

"Did you have a fine day, my lord?" She asked, annoyed that her voice sounded slightly breathy.

"Yes, I've spent most of the day hunting down the merchant whom Dagonet mentioned was in a neighboring village." He stated rather proudly, before he tossed a satchel down in front of her. Reagan stared at the gift as if he'd given her a basket full of snakes. Lancelot motioned for her to take it, perplexed by her wide-eyed expression.

Gingerly, Reagan pulled the ties loose and was astonished to find it contained a small amount of seeds. Lavender seeds that she had mentioned were badly needed days ago. She looked up at her companion, her heart in her throat once again.

Lancelot gifted her with another one of those sincere, devastating smiles and Reagan felt an overwhelming sense of shyness steal over her. She'd never been shy around Lancelot in the past but he was a different man now.

This new Lancelot was, in reality, an infinitely more dangerous and alluring man than she could have ever believed possible. She had worked well to guard her heart over the last two weeks and he had managed to wipe those futile efforts away with a satchel of badly needed seeds and a smile.

Reagan soon realized that, despite all of her hard work when it came to Lancelot, she was a doomed woman.

"Do you not need the lavender seeds?" He asked quietly, and Reagan was forced to swallow around the lump of bread that had somehow lodged itself in her throat.

"No! I mean…Yes… I mean, thank you my lord." She replied in a tight voice wrapping her fingers around the precious gift.

Reagan watched him grin as he pulled at a piece of bread and leaned back in the chair with all of his long-limbed grace, obviously delighted by her stuttered response. He poured himself some wine and offered her the pitcher. She shook her head, silently cursing herself for drinking so much earlier, when now she needed all of her wits about her. Steeling herself against the effects of the alcohol, Reagan waited patiently for him to notice the amulet in the center of the table.

After what seemed like an eternity and only when their meal was almost half eaten did he finally mention it.

"I see you've decided to remove your talisman." Lancelot observed. _Talisman indeed_ Reagan thought. This time she managed to swallow her food before she spoke.

"Yes, I think it's time I return it to its rightful owner." That caught him a little off guard, but he managed to blink back his surprise, a shield of indifference settling over his features.

"Really?" He asked, his tone carried more than a hint of disbelief.

"Yes, I've realized that since I've been appointed your ward, I've taken terrible advantage of your kindness."

"You've taken advantage of me?" He asked, his eyebrows shooting upward. Lancelot was enjoying this and the sly smirk on his face was almost her undoing. Reagan knew he was baiting her, knew that he still believed he held the upper hand, but she wasn't about to let him use that to his advantage so easily.

"Forgive me my lord, but you have already given me a roof over my head, fine dresses to wear and a job, while I've given you nothing in return. By giving you back your trinket I hope I'm showing you a fraction of my gratitude."

"You have given me plenty, Reagan. You company alone is enough." His flattery though, well stated, only made it easier for her to do what she needed to do.

"Thank you my lord," with her eyes downcast she tried her best to look modest. Slowly she inched the beastie toward him. "I must insist you take your trinket back."

"It's not a _trinket_ and I don't want it back."

Reagan gave him a closed lipped grin and pushed it toward him boldly, "I can't keep it. It isn't right."

"I gave it to you. It belongs to you." Lancelot replied, returning her grin, although his had a lethal edge to it, as he pushed the tiny beastie back to her.

"My lord, really, I already feel like a kept woman. On your honor as a knight, you cannot ask me to risk my reputation any further. I must insist that you take it back." He leveled her with a hard unyielding look that spoke of challenge. He didn't even balk at her attempts to sway him using his "honor" as leverage.

"On my honor as a Knight I must refuse." And to her disbelief he grinned wider in response.

Reagan sighed. She knew this wouldn't be easy, but she had no idea he'd be so downright stubborn about it. Grabbing the figurine, she ran the pad of her thumb across the animals face and felt the smooth surface of the worn metal. His gaze followed her every move and she felt it acutely as if he were actually caressing her with his eyes.

Reagan shifted in her chair and suppressed a wave of heat that coursed through her veins. She settled her shoulders, took a deep breath and chose her next plan of attack.

"If this is not a trinket, then pray, tell me sir, what is it?" If he could not own up to his own manipulation then Reagan was determined to make him work for it.

"It is… a talisman, a good luck charm, as I once said." Lancelot's dark eyes flashed as he blatantly lied to her, before taking a few hearty gulps of his wine. She smiled at him, cocking her head in a coy way that implied she didn't believe him for second.

"Really?" She asked in an imitation of his previous tone. "Well then, if what your saying is true, then you won't mind me taking this _talisman_ down to the smithy tomorrow."

He took her bait, looking slightly startled before he quickly wiped the expression from his face, that mask of indifference once again settling over his features.

Lancelot tried to look causal tossing a cold piece of cold meat in his mouth and chewing with effort. "And why would you do that?"

Reagan shrugged nonchalantly, testing the weight of the amulet in her palm, lightly tossing it up and down. This not-so-covert move held his rapt attention. "Lucan's birthday is next week and I thought it would be a splendid idea to give him a good luck charm, an exact copy of mine." She watched in pleasure as he visibly blanched at the idea.

"I don't think that's a very good idea. Perhaps you can give Lucan something else?"

Reagan shook her head vehemently, fighting back a smile. "I think it is a splendid idea. It is such an unusual design, I know Lucan hasn't anything like it."

"You can't." Lancelot snapped before he pressed his lips together in a fine line, a familiar quirk that signaled he was beginning to loose his patience with her.

"Why ever not?"

"Because damn it," He replied his tone was quiet, lethal and made the hair on the back of Reagan's neck rise. He leaned forward on his elbows, watching as she sat further back in response and looked at him with expectant eyes. "That is a symbol of my tribe and a piece of my family's history."

He could have left it at that, and she would have confessed her empty threat without a second thought, but he didn't.

"And because that, Reagan, is a symbol of your betrothal, not some silly trinket." He finished smoothly, tossing back his wine as if he needed the alcohol more than she had earlier.

Reagan's head jerked up in stunned disbelief. Caught off guard for a second she didn't feel the sense of victory she had expected, instead she felt slightly light- headed, seconds before her vision blurred by tears. She struggled to form a reply, but for some reason she couldn't make herself speak at that particular moment.

She'd known it was coming, knew he was going to finally come out and say his true intentions, but to actually hear him speak the words was jarring to say the least. Feeling ten times the fool, Reagan helplessly tried and failed to stem her tears.

Lancelot hadn't only been courting her, but he finally wanted to marry her.

"Please tell those are tears of happiness." He said wearily.

Reagan hid her rioting emotions behind a prim sniff, her fingers finally going lax around the amulet. She fought not to smile, tried her best not to make an ass out of herself and she feared she was failing, as a brief and intense sense of joy bubbled inside her.

Lancelot stared at her, slightly stricken at her lack of a response and Reagan knew she was sending him the wrong message, sitting there silent, tears streaking down her cheeks.

When she took to long to reply he assumed the worst, sitting up straighter he leaned forward on his elbows giving her a plaintive look. He reached for her hand and covered it with his own, a sweet gesture which made the tears tumble from her eyes in embarrassing droves.

"I know I can be a difficult man sometimes, Reagan, but I am not so unfeeling as you might think me." Reagan tried to listen to what he was saying but there was a roaring in her ears.

"If it is my fidelity you doubt, I can with some certainty say that you need not ever fear that once we are wed I would take another to our bed." At that Reagan was helpless to stop a giggle. Silly man, did he actually think she was upset about this? Probably, she'd not presented herself in the best light over the course of dinner. Clearing her throat she swiped fiercely at her wet cheeks.

"Oh, be quiet you fool!" She chastised with a watery grin that set him off guard. His expression instantly changed to confusion. "I'm happy, for once since this miserable affair started, I'm actually happy."

"Then why are you crying?" he snapped a bit annoyed.

"Because, I'm happy, a bit relieved, but mostly happy!" Only now she was starting to get irritated again.

She wondered how he could be so sweet one minute and so prickly the next. "My question to you is, why did you feel the need to resort to trickery? If you wanted to marry me so badly why didn't you come right out and ask me?"

"What do you mean _trickery_?"

"Explain to me why I had to find out from Dagonet what this," she thrust the amulet at him "really meant."

"Dagonet? Dag, told you?" He trailed off his eyes unfocused before he snapped to attention again. "How long have you been aware of my intent?"

She wanted to lie to him, wanted him to think she'd been in on his scheme from the beginning but she couldn't, the thought of more lies sitting between them made her heartsick.

"Today. I found out today." She sighed and he seemed to believe her, before she decided to continue. If they were truly going to do this, if they were going to try to be together she didn't want them starting off on the wrong foot again. There were only a few things she wanted to know before she fully agreed to marry him.

Taking a deep breath, feeling it hitch in her throat, "Why now? Why now, when weeks ago, I was forced to swallow my pride while begging you to go to Arthur and ask for me?" It wounded her pride yet again to ask the question but she had to know the reason for his sudden about face where their relationship stood.

"Believe me, Reagan, no one regrets my actions that night more than I do, but can you blame me when I'd just been given the task of finding you a husband?" At her cold silence he sighed, ran his long fingers through his curls and clenched his jaw an obvious sign that he was coming close to his wits end.

"A position you are more than ready to fill yourself, I see. When weeks ago it never crossed your mind?"

"Of course it crossed my mind!" He snapped, his fist coming down on the table and making the bowls and goblets rattle. Reagan glared at him, unfazed at his show of temper.

"Then why didn't you ask to marry me then?" She snapped, back her tone just as harsh.

She watched as he finished his wine, poured more and finished that glass rather quickly. She patiently waited for his answer. He stared into his empty goblet as if that alone held the reply he sought.

And when he did finally speak his voice was so deep and low she had to strain to hear it over the ringing in her ears, "Because at the time I didn't believe I deserved you." It was a raw and stunning admission and Reagan wanted to believe him so badly. When he raised his dark lashed eyes to hers Lancelot stared at her for an unsettling moment.

"What changed your mind?" With her mind in a whirl and her heart pounding, it was the only thing she could think to ask him. She was incapable of holding his gaze, his expression was both fierce and tender and it frightened her with its intensity.

"Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to pretend that you meant nothing to me? Do you have any idea how much I've fought wanting you? I'll be the first to admit that everything I've done since we've met has been for purely selfish reasons. I took you up as my squire because you intrigued me. I kept your secret to protect you; I seduced you because I wanted you. I accepted the position as your guardian to keep you at my side." He paused, sighing in resignation.

"I've thought long and hard about this and in the end all of my actions, my decisions have led me here to one place, one thing. You."

She blinked at him for a bewildered second, unable to form a response. The truth of the matter was that Reagan didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Only last week was she going to entreat Lancelot to marry her off to the first sorry soul he could find if only to help keep Rullus at bay.

Now, she was finally getting the one thing she had always wanted. Him.

"It was never your intention to be friends with me, was it?" She found herself asking.

"No." There was finality to his reply that struck like a bell.

With a sigh, Reagan forced herself out of her chair and made her way over to him.

He looked up at her with solemn dark eyes as she held out the tiny beastie offering it back to him, "I had no intention of taking this to the smithy. I wanted you to tell me what it meant."

"You were lying?" he asked his disbelief too keen for her to miss, as a slow smile spread across his handsome face.

Reagan choked back a mad giggle at his expression and released her grip on the amulet dropping it on to his plate, more than amazed and a little alarmed at his quick change in mood. His eyes shifted from hers to the amulet and then back again.

"You've been withholding your true intentions from me for the past week!" She tossed back at him refusing to let him turn this back on her. "I think we're even."

She turned to move away from him, wanting nothing more than to have some time to herself to think things over. Reagan needed to clear her head, get far enough away from him so she could come to grips with what he had just divulged, but she did not know that he had no intention of letting her leave until he grabbed for her wrist, hauling her back in one swift movement.

She landed on his lap, a wild tangle of skirts and awkward limbs. Once he had her settled, he curled his arm around her waist, his implacable grip insuring she would not try to flee again. Then Lancelot gently reached up and brushed tendrils of hair out of her face, leaving her no way of hiding her taunt jaw or the burning blush on her cheeks.

Reagan turned away from him and his searching gaze, trying to wiggle and squirm away from the imposing heat of his body.

He tightened his arm around her and glowered, "Cease your movements, woman, or I'll take you here on the table instead of the bed."

Reagan's face flamed even brighter than it had before and she tried her best to look shocked at his brazen comment. Although she was fully aware of the evidence of his desire for her poking at her beneath the layers of her skirts she knew that his threat was an empty one.

"Do you have no shame?" Reagan managed to gasp although her voice had a husky timber to it that made it impossible disguise her own growing awareness of him.

"None that I can think of at the moment." Came his soft reply, as he squeezed her thigh in a bold manner that spoke of familiarity. Reagan tried to slap his hand away, but he was too quick for her, anticipating her next move and deftly grabbing at her wrist, his grip gentle if not the tone of his voice.

"Reign in your claws, love, else you'll tire yourself out. There's far more groping to be done before I'm through with you." She didn't even have to pretend to be affronted at his rakish tone.

"Does your arrogance know no bounds?" He shook his head in answer and she rolled her eyes, despite the fact that she had unconsciously wrapped her arm around his neck for balance and had begun to toy with the hair at his nape, her touch dangerously close to a caress.

"I can't seem to do anything right when it comes to you," Lancelot chuckled self-depreciatingly. "Ironically, I never had any trouble with women, not until I met you."

"And of course this is all my fault!" She exclaimed, pushing at his chest. He rebounded quickly, his arm tightening around her as his other hand slid up her back.

"Are you done fighting me?" He asked, stroking his thumb down her cheek, his crooked smile achingly tender; this man with his wit and words, his charm and his mystery.

She loved him so deeply, that she didn't believe for a second he expected her full surrender.

"Never," she grinned back. "Ask me properly and maybe I'll consider the table." At her words Lancelot's responding grin nearly bowled her over.

Reagan had never witnessed such a look before and it was enough to stun her into silence. His smile faded leaving her staring breathless into the smoky depths of his dark eyes.

"Reagan, be my wife." She didn't think it possible but his voice deepened on the last word and his face swam before her as her eyes filled with tears again, much to her mortification.

"I don't supposed you've left me any choice in the matter, have you?" She sniffed primly, but at his look all of her false bravado faded, "After all, you have compromised me."

She watched as he nodded, a flicker of seriousness in his gaze.

"And I intend to spend the rest of my days making that up to you. Now, What did you call our interlude?"

His face was a complex study in contradiction, a baleful look that warred with the merry glitter of his black eyes. "Oh yes, I remember, _interesting_ and _educational_ is how I believe you put it." Lancelot gathered her up in his arms, lifted her with ease and unceremoniously dumped her on the bed. Reagan blinked up at him in mock chagrin before he covered her body with his, pressing her into the feather tick with his weight.

"I believe I can do much better than that, and I'm always one who is willing to rise to the occasion." He leered at her and Reagan muffled her giggle in his broad shoulder.

This was how Reagan had always wanted him: open, happy and hers for the taking.

Fisting her fingers in his hair she brought her lips to his slid her tongue into his mouth and swallowed his answering groan. He slid his leg in between hers and she rocked against it instinctively clinging to him as he took control of their kiss.

Reagan suddenly felt as if she had gone up in flames, as he took her mouth with a savage passion that threatened to swallow her whole. She felt him swiping at the bedding, pushing the furs and blankets out of his way, his mouth never once left hers. He broke contact with her long enough to divest her of her dress, the sound of fabric rending breaking through the haze of desire.

"My dress!" She exclaimed as clever, yet clumsy fingers unlaced her chemise with more tender care than they had shown the outer garment.

"I will buy you a half dozen more," he replied reverently, sliding his rough hands over every exposed inch of her skin that he could reach.

She felt his mouth on her neck, sweet and hot, and she arched herself shamelessly into his caress, crying out, as he slid down to her breasts. Her fingers tangled themselves in his curls when he pushed her backward and Reagan felt the softness of the furs covering the bed against her skin. Gone suddenly were her shoes and underclothes and her calves hung precariously over the edge of the mattress.

His hand slid in between her legs and she felt herself blush at the touch. Sensations beset her and she gasped as he pressed two of his fingers inside her, readying her. A sense of urgency overwhelmed her as he began to move those clever fingers as he nuzzled her throat.

"Lancelot, please," Reagan pleaded not quite sure what she was asking for only knowing that she was desperate for it. He stood and divested himself of his breeches and tunic so quickly she didn't have time to realize he meant to take her while she was still hanging half off the bed until she felt the delicious slide of him inside her.

There was no pain this time; she marveled only a stark, stunning pleasure that made her body hum with delight. He gave her no respite, pushing into her until she writhed and then leaving her to do it all over again.

Reagan wrapped her legs around his waist, pulled him to her and smiled greedily as he was forced to bend at the waist his arms once again on either side of her, his hands grabbing the bedding for purchase as he took her. She ran her hands up and down the slick skin of his chest, reveling in the feel of him.

Soon his leisurely pace quickened and Reagan once again felt that strange sense of urgency take over her.

She felt something building, something bright and burning and she clawed at his shoulders before she threw her head back in a silent cry, her entire body shivering in pleasure. It was seconds before she heard him moan in response, seconds more before she noticed the change in him. Harder faster he drove himself into her and she met him stroke for stroke unwilling to relent until he let himself go. Which he did with a strangled cry, his entire body shuddering before he collapsed on her.

They lay there for some time, their breathing irregular, a tangle of limbs and sweaty skin. Her limbs trembled and shook as she unwound herself from him, yet Reagan had never been so content in her entire life. She felt him slowly begin to nuzzle her breasts, running his lips along them idly as she squirmed. He stopped his wicked torture for a moment, looking down at her in concern.

"You're not hurt? Did I..." He trailed off at her expression. Reagan smiled up at him her eyes slightly glassy.

"Is that all you've got?" She asked with a quirk of her lips as she toyed with one of his curls delighting when it seemed to wrap around her finger. His eyes widened then narrowed in challenge.

"Oh, I've got more." He answered, as he sinuously managed to move them onto the bed entirely, before flipping them over to deftly reverse their positions. Reagan felt her own eyes go wide as he clutched at the back of her neck and drew her down to bring her lips to his, "A lot more."

"I'll try to keep up," she grinned as he wrapped his arms around her, and that was the last either one of them said for a very long time.

**AN: First off I have to say: Wow! 400 Reviews and over 41,000 hits! *blushes* Thank you so much! I am absolutely pleased and humbled that my story has had such a wonderful reception here. When I started this story almost two years ago, I have to admit it was a purely selfish endeavor. I wanted to write something that I had always wanted to read (And featured Lancelot of course- because I felt he lacked the love). When I posted that first chapter ages ago, I never thought for one second Eternal Knight would get over 100 reviews let alone 400. I can't begin to express my gratitude to everyone who has taken time out of their day to read/review and/or leave me a little note letting me know how much they like this story. Thank you! From the bottom of my heart- THANK YOU~!**

**There is a link on my profile page to view Cricket05's beautiful artwork for the story. If you're interested to see who I always pictured Reagan and Ivy to look like, go on over and take a gander. She did a wonderful job! :)**

**Chapter 24 is finished. Look for it soon. I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter, as much as I loved writing it! **


	24. Chapter 24

**No money is being made from this. I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story. I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**This chapter is dedicated to my wonderful and talented beta team. Without their help this chapter would have been a complete and utter disaster. This chapter truly is a collaborative effort. Thank you so much ladies! I love you! Any mistakes spotted within the text are completely my own. **

"_It's an old adage that the way to be safe is never to be secure ... Each one of us requires the spur of insecurity to force us to do our best."__**-**_**Harold W. Dodds**

Chapter 24

An unmistakable air of contentment and deep tranquility hung over the chamber when Reagan managed to finally wake the following dawn. She blindly turned to the left only to find the other side of the bed empty. Her eyes shot open as a brief sense of disappointment shot through her, before she realized that the sheets were still warm. Smiling to herself she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow muffling a giggle. Biting back a wistful sigh she clutched the pillow close as delicious memories of the previous night assailed her.

After their second bout of lovemaking Lancelot had cradled her head to his chest as he pushed sweaty tendrils of hair out of her eyes, quietly begging for her forgiveness for all of those nights he had abandoned her. While he vowed to make amends, Reagan had silenced him with a kiss.

After that, she had lost count of how many times he had sealed his pledge during those precious hours between midnight and dawn. He was lusty and virile and being with him was breathtaking. Reagan could not remember ever being so happy or so tired. When sleep had finally claimed them, she snuggled against his chest, revelling in the sensation of being safe and adored.

Unable to stop from smiling yet again, she pushed hair out of her eyes and looked about the room, wondering where Lancelot had gone. Her stomach gave an irritable growl and she hoped that he was away fetching them some food to break their fast. Stumbling from the bed on wobbly legs, Reagan rooted around trying to find the tattered remains of her red dress.

Instead, she noticed that Lancelot's breeches were missing but his tunic lay in a heap, carelessly forgotten. Reagan smiled as she carefully folded the garment, unable to resist bringing it to her nose for a second, indulging her girlish fancy. Hastily donning her green work dress, making doubly sure to wear her talisman, it was several moments before she realized the chamber door stood slightly ajar, beckoning her into the hazy morning.

Reagan walked silently down the corridor- keeping her back pressed against the wall as she made her way down the stone steps without even realizing it. Picking her way though the handful of villagers that had chosen a bench, or a dark corner and small pile of blankets to sleep on, she saw that the main door to the castle was open, inviting a sliver of early morning light to creep in.

Stepping outside Reagan blinked as her eyes adjusted to the grey morning. As if seeing her surroundings for the first time, she realized how much had changed in the course of a few hours. Even Hadrian's Wall seemed vast and imposing to her. The mercilessly overcast sky gave no promise of a bright sunny day. Instead, it was more the kind of late summer morning that could easily be mistaken for early autumn. Stepping out onto the battlements Reagan was unable to stifle a gasp.

Taking in the immense and starkly beautiful surroundings she realized she was a naive fool to think that such an unbridled wilderness of lush green forests and rolling hills was not a fantastic thing to behold. How had she not taken note of it before? Looking out at the landscape before her, Reagan suddenly felt small and insignificant as if the land itself had the power to swallow her whole.

At the thought, a brief chill ran through her, but she attributed it to the damp. Reagan would have considered herself to be a coward and not above the lure of creeping back into the safety and warmth of her chambers, had she not spotted the man standing ahead of her with one foot braced against the parapet.

A cool breeze sifted through his dark curls as he gazed out over plains. To Reagan, he seemed more at ease with himself than ever before. In the past he had always been a tightly coiled creature, his passions and emotions simmering constantly beneath the surface of his otherwise blithe and bitter façade. Yet watching him now, Reagan realized that he looked younger, more content and more handsome than she could have ever imagined.

Walking up to him quietly, she stood at his side and placed her hand lightly on his lower back. He turned to look at her with a small smile before pulling her toward him tenderly placing a very gentle kiss on her forehead.

It was then Reagan realized he was wearing that horrid green tunic as the two garish red roses she'd vindictively embroidered on the center of his chest stared her in the face, and her surprised laughter seemed to echo in the stillness of the morning.

"I told you before, I like this tunic," Lancelot said, a smile in his voice.

"Then I shall endeavor to embroider red roses on all of your tunics once we are wed." She grinned as he failed to suppress a groan at the thought.

"I wouldn't go that far," he replied as she pressed her face gently into his chest, giggling anew. She felt him stiffen and grow serious in the space of a heartbeat. She glanced back up at him with searching eyes wondering the reason for his sudden change in mood.

"I'm going to hold a meeting with Arthur today." Reagan nodded waiting for him to continue. "Its not safe for you here. I want us married as soon as possible and I want to make sure that you are protected at all times. I'll not have that bastard, Rullus, thinking he can just waltz in here and take you from me."

"No one is going to take me away," she said gently, trying to allay some of his fears.

"Rullus has not yet found me and two months have passed. Surely you have to believe as I do that he has finally given up the search." She felt him sigh as he loosened his grip around her, placing both of his big hands gently on her upper arms.

"I wish I could be as confident about that as you are, but something tells me that this Rullus isn't as benevolent or forgetful as you believe him to be." Reagan thought on it and realized that Lancelot had a point: that she was letting her newly found contentment override her own sense of precaution.

"Do you have reason to suspect that he has continued to hunt for me here?" When he took longer to reply Reagan assumed his answer would not be a good one.

"Yes. Although I do not have proof, but Tristan suspects something is amiss in the outlying forests. "

"But that could be anything." Reagan said gently, trying to help him see how silly he was being. Surely no one was going to emerge at any moment and snatch her away.

"I trust Tristan. He knows the forests surrounding the kingdom better than anyone and if he suspects something is wrong then so do I," Lancelot replied, a firm note of finality in his tone. Reagan wanted to argue with him and make him see reason, but there was something that stopped her. While her earlier assessment of him seeming more content was correct, there was a restless edge of concern in him that seemed to mar her own wellbeing.

"Then what do you propose I do? Hide myself away like some frightened little mouse? I will not stop living my life just because Tristan spotted something strange in the forest. I will admit that part of me still worries about my past coming back to haunt me, but so far it hasn't," she finished, hoping he would see her side of things, but at her words something inside him seemed to break.

"I will not lose you now, not when I've finally found you. Please, if not for your sake then for mine, promise me that you'll stay within the protection of the wall." Reagan couldn't stand to hear the note of anguish in his voice and swallowed hard in response. Unable to bear the intensity of his gaze she turned away once again, not quite ready to process his unfounded concern. When she looked back she was surprised to see he had taken a few steps away from her.

Startled by his retreat, she closed the remaining distance between them in three strides. Reaching up she caressed the curve of his jaw and his eyes slid shut as he turned into the touch. Placing his lips on her palm, she felt herself tremble in response. Reagan considered her words very carefully before she replied, but unwilling to make such a promise she knew there was no refusing him now.

"Neither of us know what tomorrow will bring. But for the first time in a long time I feel safe, and for you and only you I would do anything." She met his searching gaze unwavering beneath the dark intensity of it.

Reagan loved him, had always loved him and she fully intended to keep true to her word. As if he could bear it no longer, Lancelot grabbed her quickly, his arms like iron bands about her waist. Molding his mouth to hers, Reagan was helpless to stifle a gasp of pleasure, winding her arms around his neck and responding to his passion in kind. She held onto him just as tightly, unwilling to ever allow him to doubt the sincerity of her pledge.

When they finally broke apart, Lancelot rested his forehead against hers, his breathing slightly ragged.

"If I had my way we would be married on the morrow, but I doubt Arthur would agree to such whim. Guinevere is away in the western territories with Gawain as escort, conferring with the last of the old Roman lords that reside there. We shall wait for their return as I would prefer to have everyone, including the Queen and Gawain, witness our vows."

Reagan tried to smile at this, but at that moment she was still struggling to think though the haze of desire that had suddenly--and with good reason--clouded her mind. When Lancelot finally and very reluctantly released her, she watched bemusedly as he ran his fingers through his curls, a curious glint of unholy fire in his eyes. He smiled down at her before grabbing her wrist and stalking off the battlements pulling her behind him.

"My lord, where are we going?" She asked, slightly confused, stumbling along to keep up with his pace. He always hated it when she fell behind.

"We have two hours before Arthur will rise. I have a better idea of how that time could be spent rather than staring off into the distance on a cold morning," came his short, rather amused reply. Reagan could not fault him for his logic and smiled as he shut the chamber door behind them.

In one swift movement-- that shouldn't have surprised her, he pressed Reagan against the wall before removing her clothing with almost as much haste and enthusiasm as the night before. Just when she was about to protest his manhandling of another one of her dresses, he kissed her until she couldn't form a single coherent thought. Once his possession of her was complete and the delicious friction of him inside her became too overwhelming; she forgot all about protesting and silly trivial things such as ruined dresses.

All that mattered was the man in her arms and the love she felt for him.

* * *

It was much later in the day than Ivy expected when Reagan decided to make an appearance in the healing rooms. After a long and exhaustive morning, Ivy would have preferred to have her arrive much earlier. She was not ashamed to admit that she needed Reagan's assistance, as she was overwhelmed with the amount of work that needed to be done and the patients were more demanding of her time than usual.

When Reagan finally stumbled into the infirmary from the garden, it was all Ivy could do not to snap at her to get her butt moving. That was until she spotted the rather glazed and flushed expression Reagan couldn't seem to remove from her expressive face.

"So I take it that our little set-up was a success?" She managed to ask while pulverizing some willow bark with her pestle. Reagan gave her a cat-got-the-cream smile, which was all the answer Ivy needed. A low keening moan sliced through the satisfaction of the moment as both women looked in the general direction of the far cots.

A young mother in the throws of the excruciating pain of childbirth needed her attention again and Ivy felt herself go into a slight panic. Dagonet was more experienced at helping women birth their babies and for some reason she always felt unreasonably uncomfortable dealing with pregnant women. Glancing down at her mortar she noted that the willow bark was almost fine enough to steep into a tea for the poor girl who, in her own opinion, looked far too young to be bearing children.

Reagan gave her a sympathetic smile before she went over to one of the washbasins to get a fresh cold cloth for the girl. Walking over to the patient, her friend tenderly assisted the woman, holding her hand and murmuring words of encouragement in between her pained gasps. Reagan's bedside manor was much improved since she'd begun her apprenticeship with Dagonet.

Once the tea was finally made and Ivy had managed to check on two other patients--one with rather nasty sweating sickness, the other a man with a broken arm and constant complaints of sharp stomach pains. Ivy likely attributed them to a night of heavy drinking or, she smiled wryly, sympathy pains for the girl at the far end of the room.

Handing Reagan the mug, Ivy watched as the girl refused to drink even after gentle coxing. Ivy wrung her hands tightly, wishing Dagonet would return from his meeting posthaste and help relieve the girl of her suffering. As if God sought to silently answer her prayers, Dagonet lumbered into the infirmary, his footsteps remarkably quiet for such a large man. Lucan trailed at his heels like an eager pup.

Ivy quickly gave Dagonet a run down of current situations and the status of each of the patients. She tried her best to relay why the young woman seemed to be fairing so poorly, but Dag seemed to understand her need and frustration in the situation better than Ivy did.

Reagan stepped away from the girl's side as the healer made his way over to her. Something strange passed between knight and her friend and Reagan blushed to the roots of her hair at the exchange. Ivy picked out a few words of their quiet conversation although he seemed to be giving her his blessing.

Once she reached Reagan's side, Ivy subtly reached over and pinched her on the arm. Her friend jumped, glaring at her, before Lucan took it upon himself to state rather loudly that he hoped Dagonet would let him partake of ale at Reagan's wedding, seeing as it was his idea that she meet Lancelot in the first place.

Ivy's suspicions were correct and she felt herself smile widely. The old scar on her cheek seemed to stretch, but she didn't mind the pain she as she gleefully hugged Reagan, who managed to look even more embarrassed by the attention.

The much-needed distraction, however, was short lived as an anguished cry pierced the otherwise light mood that had overtaken them since Dagonet's return. He returned his attention to his patient; Lucan, Reagan and Ivy retreated slowly in an attempt to give the woman and her healer some privacy.

Ivy worried her bottom lip as she observed Dagonet. His gentle demeanor with the girl was in striking contrast to his swift and steady movements. Ivy was struck anew by his ability to steadfastly adapt to any given situation. He was the rock many at Camelot counted on and he hardly ever failed to do his duty.

Placing his large hands on the girl's swollen belly, his striking features twisted together in a look of concern. He looked over his shoulder to address her, "The babe has not yet turned. I fear that we are in for a long night." At his words, a feeble whimper of distress came from the patient. Ivy's heart went out to her as she watched Dagonet stroke the hair away from the girl's sweaty forehead.

Getting up, Dagonet rinsed his hands and dried them while silence hung heavy throughout the room. "There is an herb that can help her along. I can not think of the name at the moment but I know if we can administer the sap from the blossoms to her within the next few hours she should greatly improve."

"Meadowsweet." Reagan stated her voice clear as everyone turned to look at her. "Father William made sure I grew some every year for this very situation. It is not in bloom now but the leaves should be hearty enough to get the job done." Dagonet looked at her with an approving smile.

"Do you know where we can get some?" Ivy asked, as she knew full well they grew no such plant in the small garden behind them. At this Reagan nodded already hastening to remove her apron.

"Yes, I spotted a patch of it a while back growing in the forest. I think I can manage to find it again."

"You're not to leave the wall Reagan. Even I know that." Dagonet's sharp reminder stopped the girl mid-stride as she was reaching for the door. Reagan turned to look at the big knight, knowing he was right.

"I know exactly where it is and what it looks like. My lord, I beg you, please let me at least attempt to get this for the girl." She pleaded, looking at the healer with big blue eyes. Ivy knew that Dagonet would be unable to resist such a look. But to her complete surprise the knight seemed unmoved at Reagan's request. As stubborn as Ivy had ever seen him he refused to let Reagan go.

"You may plead as prettily as you like, but I have my orders and you are to stay within the protection of the wall, Reagan." When Ivy noticed Reagan's expression change to that stubborn mulish look at Dagonet's refusal, she thought it best to cut her friend off at the pass before she let her sharp tongue get the best of her.

Grabbing for Reagan's forearm, she drew her attention away from the healer, "I think I might have something in my stores that will benefit the girl. Reagan would you like to help me look for it?" Ivy watched as Reagan's eyes narrowed slightly in response to her overly light tone but she was relieved when her friend nodded. Twice more Reagan tried to sway Dagonet into letting her fetch the Meadowsweet, and each time the healer refused.

While the two girls rooted around in Ivy's well organized stores of herbs and poultices, Lucan remained in the infirmary to help Dagonet when he could fetching water, helping some of the other patients with simple things at Dag's insistence and staying out of the girls' way. Ivy tried to keep Reagan's mind off other matters by giving her some tasks that required concentration, but as the hours crawled by she could feel Reagan's impatience and frustration grow.

Ivy knew it pained Reagan to know there was a way to ease to the young mother's suffering at her disposal, yet there was no way for her to get to it. She had been strictly forbidden to go into the forest for whatever reason and Reagan did not like it.

After much stalling on her part, Ivy left the girl alone sorting through various pouches and jars in her small back cupboard, wanting only to check on two of the other patients. Time and good sense had escaped Ivy as she checked in on the others and reluctantly assisted Dag with the pregnant girl. So absorbed in her work she didn't notice Lucan's mysterious disappearance until it was too late. As she walked back into her stores cupboard a profound sense of dread threatened to overwhelm her.

The cupboard was well arranged, everything put back in its rightful place, and Reagan, just like Lucan, had vanished.

* * *

Reagan cursed under her breath, as her eyes attempted to adjust to the dim grey light of the woods and at her own foolishness for attempting such a risky task. She had managed to escape the healing rooms without Dagonet or Ivy noticing. And as much as the thrill of escaping unnoticed pleased Reagan, she knew almost immediately what a mistake it had been.

She gave the darkening sky a wary glance; dusk was not far off. This realization did nothing to help her seen any better, while she stumbled tiredly along the familiar path into the forest. Sighing with resignation, she trudged on. Reagan could no more watch that poor girl suffer, as could her companions, she tried rationalizing to herself.

_They would understand, _she thought. _And wouldn't they be pleased with her when she returned with the Meadowsweet?_ Although, something told her that deep down this was a foolish quest she stubbornly pushed the thought away.

Taking one last glance over her shoulder, she looked back at the darkening shape of Hadrian's Wall unable to properly drudge up regret over her decision.

If there was one thing she knew for certain would that ease the young girl's pain, it was Meadowsweet and Reagan knew exactly where she could harvest some: In the very same forest she had promised not to enter so many hours ago. Trying not to think about Lancelot or how she was to sooth his inevitable temper once he got word of her latest act of disobedience, she looked over at Lucan who seemed to be following her lead somewhat hesitantly.

"We should have brought something to light our way. It's only going to get darker before we get back," he grumbled, as he staggered along behind her. "I don't know why I let you talk me into this."

"I need you to escort me back safely. And really Lucan, do you think it wise to bring a fire-lit torch into a forest?" she asked with one raised eyebrow, which lost its effect when she tripped over an up-turned root. He grunted in response and reached for her, steadying her on her feet, as they wadded through almost knee high plants. Reagan immediately noted that something was different. Not so much that the average eye would see it, but she did nonetheless.

Her path, the one she had taken many times to the frigid pond to bathe, had been worn down. The bracken and ferns were trampled as if many pairs of feet had stomped them down repeatedly. A few rogue pieces stood up here and there defiantly, but it was evident that someone had taken this path more than once, and she had had no need of it since their return to the fort weeks ago.

A very familiar and unpleasant sense of foreboding ran though her. Against her better instincts she continued on, vowing to herself that she would be in and out of the forest within a matter of minutes. She could avoid trouble if was not intentionally sought. Plus she wasn't alone and the sounds of Lucan stumbling behind her gave her faltering sense of security, a much-needed boost.

Reaching the clearing near the pond, she knew where the small but hearty patch of Meadowsweet grew. A startling sense of disappointment came over her though, when she came upon the plants. Some of them had been chewed down to their very bases, their stalks and branches stood up barren in a patch that had been ravaged. Hungry deer had found the Meadowsweet and had made a feast of it.

Unwilling to admit defeat, Reagan searched the tiny plot looking for any pieces that could be salvaged. A little more than proud of her, when she'd found a set of new growth beneath a few of the less chewed upon plants. She set to work, while Lucan leaned on a tree next to her, his hands in his pockets his eyes darting around their surroundings wearily.

Swallowing hard to calm her nerves, Reagan moved to her knees as she reached for the one of the stalks. Through the canopy of branches above them, the muted daylight made it increasingly harder for her to see. Glancing over her shoulder more than once, Reagan wanted to mentally slap herself for feeling so wary. The hair on the back of her neck arose in awareness, and more than once she was unable to shake the feeling of many pairs of malevolent eyes watching her from the dark depths of the trees around them.

Lifting the hem of her skirts to reach for her dagger, the sound of a snapping twig in the distance distracted her. Turning her head toward the sound she almost came out of her skin as someone grabbed her arm. Reagan stood up, quickly pulling her arm out of Lucan's sweaty grasp. She looked down to notice Lucan had reached for his own blade. Apparently she had not been the only one affected by the sinister air of the forest.

"Did you hear that?" He asked his whisper loud enough to stir the birds in the trees above them.

"Yes! Do not do that again!" Reagan snapped, immediately regretting her harsh tone. Lucan did his best to look chastised as he mumbled an apology. He hesitantly put his own dagger away and Reagan quickly forgave him, as she bent once more and began digging around the stubborn roots of the plant.

Reagan was concentrating on her task, making her movements sharp and quick, wanting nothing more than to get out of the blasted forest as soon as possible. So it was no surprise that she was depending entirely on Lucan to take note of their surroundings.

Never mind, that she had gone against her better instincts going into the forest in the first place. Never mind, that she had snuck out of the infirmary dragging a reluctant Lucan along with her. These internal musings however logical were something she would later come to regret that she had acted upon.

Again a snapping twig and the rustle of leaves alerted her to something prowling closer to them. Reagan stopped digging momentarily, her senses on keen alert. Lucan stood next to her as still as a statue as a shadowy figure slid out from behind a tree.

Her dull dagger slid from Reagan's limp grasp only to land on the forest floor with a distinct and ominous thud as the figure addressed her.

"Good evening, daughter." Angus Darvey's rough voice slid over her like scratchy wool in the heavy silence. Reagan blinked at her father as if she didn't quite believe he was actually there, her heart jumped into her throat at his approach.

His form was wiry and thinner than she remembered. He looked haggard and ill and the fading light did nothing to enhance his appearance. The shadows of the forest only served to make him more menacing, something he'd never been while raising her. This unexpected and surreal encounter finally forced Reagan to accept that her father had changed. He'd never been the same since her mother's death and only after Angus had willingly and with little regret sold her into Rullus' keeping had she come to accept it.

Swallowing audibly Reagan found her voice, "How did you find me?" His laughter pierced the relative stillness of the forest broken by a few feeble, lung-rattling coughs that made her wince in reaction.

"Reagan, you've always been an intelligent girl. I must admit, your disguise threw us for a while. But I would recognize you anywhere. Did you not think he wouldn't send someone to look for you?" Reagan knew exactly who her father was speaking of, but for some unknown reason she refused to believe him.

"Rullus has long given up on me. I've… I've been gone for months." Angus' bitter chuckle broke through her denial, shattering it instantly. Lucan looked between the pair with wide-eyes full of disbelief before he snapped to attention.

"This man is your father?" He asked his voice so loud it rang throughout the forest. When Reagan nodded too stunned for a reply, Lucan whipped out his dagger and wrapped one arm around her waist dragging her behind him. "Stay away, old man or I will cut you." But Angus didn't heed Lucan's well-spoken threat. Instead he gave him a chilling, yet sad smile, before he continued to address Reagan as if Lucan wasn't even there.

"You were easy to find once we realized who aided your escape. The old priest was hard to break but he did eventually succumb to Rullus' overly enthusiastic and persuasive… methods of getting information." Reagan failed to stifle a startled and disgusted gasp at her father's casually stated words.

"Father Daniel? You let them torture Father Daniel?" She asked her voice rising with each word. Lucan reached for her pulling her back, effectively cutting off Reagan's angry and foolish lunge toward her father. Placing his arm in front of her, Lucan sent her a silent look that told not to move.

Angus gave her a careless shrug, "Did you really think that we wouldn't find you?" He asked as he approached the pair of them slowly, his movements, smooth and quiet, belying how ill he actually was.

It was then that the "we" her father spoke of finally made themselves apparent.

Six men seemed to come out of nowhere, emerging from the shadows as if they were born of them. A few of them she recognized, the others were strangers, but it didn't matter. She and Lucan were surrounded and Reagan realized that any means of escape had been effectively cut off by their sudden and chilling appearance.

Reagan's fingers threatened to pierce the fabric of Lucan's tunic before she realized she was clutching at it so tightly her hand hurt. Releasing her grip, unwilling to let them see any sign of weakness, she stood her ground along side her companion.

"Why are you here, Father?" It was the only logical and reasonable question she could think to ask at the moment. Angus scoffed at her question as if the answer alone was apparent.

"Don't be an idiot, girl. Twenty-five silver coins is a fetching price for your return, don't you agree?" He asked with a grin that didn't quite meet his eyes.

"I thought you'd already made a profit, or did you manage to spend the fifty pieces of silver that bastard gave you the first time you sold me?" She spat back, barely managing to get a grip on her temper. Something in her father's demeanor changed then, a sliver of remorse crept over his features and it startled Reagan for a split second.

"I needed the coin, Reagan, I told you that. I still need the coin, so it really makes no difference. Besides, as I was reminded enough in the time you were gone, it was your head or mine should I fail to bring you back. Rullus is a man of his word—that much you know. I had hoped that you better than anyone would understand the need for self-preservation," he finished, any paternal guilt he'd been feeling moments ago quickly fading.

Reagan had to remind herself that this man was not her father. Instead, he was a creature held captive by his own devices and greed. Had her mother lived she would have liked to think things would have been different. As it was, this was the grim reality she was faced with and it was these internal musings that cost her. It was seconds before she noticed the swift enclosure of the men surrounding them.

Lucan grabbed onto her in a last-ditch effort to shield her from them, and she tried to push him away.

"Run Lucan! Go!" She yelled, but it was no use. They pulled him away roughly, dragging him off her by his arms. Lucan put up a fight, arms flailing and legs pin-wheeling beneath him. Reagan spun around in an attempt to flee, but a third man came up behind her a fraction of a second before she could turn around to defend herself. Wrapping his arms around her he held her captive, his brutish strength impenetrable to her struggles to get free.

She watched in horror as the men brutally punched Lucan, causing the boy to collapse to the ground in pain, before he was dragged up again. She jerked against her captor, trying desperately to get free to help her friend, as the blade of a dagger pressed against his throat. Lucan's left eye was already swelling and his nose was bleeding but not once did he take his gaze off Reagan.

"If you try to escape, or scream again, we'll slice his throat," the man behind her mouthed in her ear. His breath, hot on her skin, made her want to recoil in disgust and fear. Reagan watched as Lucan's Adam's apple bobbed up and down frantically on the edge of the blade as her father approached her. Reaching into his cloak he removed a dagger, an exact copy of her own but with one frightening difference: his blade was deadly sharp as it gleamed at her catching on fading ray of sunlight.

Reagan blinked, stunned, as he came closer, raising the dagger up over her face. She screwed her eyes shut and turned away from him. Angus ignored her expression before he pulled at her hair, slicing off a lock with cold detachment, before folding it into a piece of cloth. Blinking back her shock she watched as Angus tucked the cloth into Lucan's tunic, patting the boy's pocket in mock benevolence.

"Don't do this Father! Please, I'm begging you let us go!" Reagan pleaded, forcing the words out of her tight throat. Angus looked back at her and it was the combination of resignation and blind purpose in his expression that scared Reagan to death. With one last glance at her, Angus turned his attention to the men.

"Try not to break his legs. I want him to be able to walk out of the forest. He has a message to deliver." At his words a surge of unholy terror arose in Reagan as she realized what they meant to do.

Only now did she regret not heading Lancelot's pleas to stay with in the protection of the wall. Only now did she regret her foolish, yet well-meaning trip into the forest.

With one last anguished and frightened look at Lucan, she opened her mouth to scream, only to have the piercing sound cut off effectively by a sharp searing pain in her skull, moments before the entire world went black.

**AN: Please don't hate me for the cliffhanger. Questions will be answered in chapter 25 (I hope). Also, look for some heavy clues leading up to Silent Knight in chapter 25. Maybe what Tristan saw in the forest isn't what Lancelot suspects... just maybe. **

**Until Chapter 25! Happy Fathers Day to everyone in the US! **

**~S **


	25. Chapter 25

**No money is being made from this. I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story. I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**HUGE THANKS AGAIN TO THE BETA TEAM! You guys rock! :)**

**Warning: There is a bit of strong language and violence in this chapter. If you have a problem with this let me know and I will try to send you a PG-13 version of this chapter instead. **

**For Peachpaige and Pia. Two people who have been patiently waiting for this one... **

"_Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will."_**- Mahatma Gandhi**

Chapter 25

It had been a moment of celebration and Lancelot was enjoying a goblet of Arthur's finest spiced mead. He reclined in his chair with a grace that belied his increasingly inebriated state, as the two men proceeded to drink the flagon dry. Arthur had not been surprised at the meeting earlier, when Lancelot had made the announcement of his up-coming nuptials. Instead, it was met with exhaustible sighs of relief from all of the Knights--much to Lancelot's chagrin.

Now he found himself grinning like a fool, while Arthur managed to get increasingly drunk by the minute, spilling his mead on the scrolls spread carelessly across his desk. There was nothing that could spoil Lancelot's good mood. It was this reassurance that had caused him precious seconds; his own foolish hope that nothing could go wrong now.

Later, he would always wonder if it was this blind faith in his apparent good fortune that had come back to bite him in the ass. It was this sense of damnable optimism that was eventually his undoing and he should have savored that last sip of mead. Because little did he know, in a matter of minutes all hell was about to break loose and he was going to pay the ultimate price for it.

* * *

Reagan awoke rather suddenly when her head made sharp contact with something very hard. Seconds later she rapped her skull again, the stinging pain bringing her completely alert. She blinked as dark shapes shifted in her blurry vision. Her hands and feet felt numb and her mouth had a faint metallic taste to it, as if she'd slept too long.

Trying her best to push herself up into a sitting position, she realized that her hands were tied in front of her with a piece of leather so tight that it cut into her skin. She wiggled her feet; apparently they'd tied them together as well. That would explain the numbness.

She was trussed up like a sack of grain, inside a dark smelly cart, and at this realization Reagan's heart began to pound in panic. The clamor of the horse's hooves as they sped along a rutted road served as an appropriate backdrop to the sheer terror she was beginning to feel.

They had found her. More appropriately, _he_ had found her. With a profound sense of trepidation Reagan realized was headed straight back into the one place, the one person she had sought never to return to: Waldenham and Rullus.

Folding her knees beneath her, she dug her elbows into the rocking floor of the cart and forced herself upright, slouching against one of the walls. This only served to make it easier for her to fall again when the speed of the wagon sent her rocking to the side, and Reagan went down like a sack of potatoes.

Giving up the fight she stayed down, though she was loath to have anyone find her in such a prone position. Fighting to keep her breathing under control, Reagan rolled to her side and desperately tried to loosen the ties around her ankles. Straining against her bindings until she could feel the muscles in her legs protest, she was rewarded with a very tiny amount of slack from the tight knot.

Now able to wiggle her feet, she managed to loosen her bindings enough to slide one edge over her left heel. Her brief sense of victory was short lived, as the wagon lurched to an abrupt halt, sending her tumbling against its side. Banging her tender head for what was the third time that night, she bit her tongue to keep from crying out in pain.

Forcing her eyes to open, dim, hazy shapes shifted before her as the opening to the wagon was yanked open. The burly man who'd held her captive in the forest reached in for her, his fingers wrapping around her calf before forcefully dragging her to the edge. Had her hands not been bound, Reagan would have tried to claw her way out of the man's clutches. As it was she could only shriek a protest at his manhandling before he sharply pulled her upright.

"I told you we should have gagged her, Angus," he grunted, as she managed to dig the sharp points of her elbows into the man's beefy chest.

"At least she's awake." She heard her father mutter, before her captor snatched at her bound wrists, making the sore appendages throb, a stuttered objection sticking in her throat.

"I says it's time we have some fun with her," one of the men behind them suggested, and Reagan balked at the insinuation.

"She's to be handed over to his lordship untouched. You know that." Angus bit off; his sharp tone brooked no room for argument. Reagan didn't know whether to be thankful for her father's defense or offended by it.

"But that dark-haired bloke already had his way with her. How's Rullus to know we've had a bit of fun ourselves?" Another of them argued, a slight whine in his voice.

"No one is to touch her!" Angus bellowed and Reagan blinked in shock at his tone. "Because it'll be our heads if she's not fit and ready to receive him when we deliver her." Her initial surprise at his defense faded quickly. Angus spoke of her as if she were some parcel, not the daughter he had spent a better part of his life raising.

"You still plan to collect your reward, I see." She managed, her voice tight while she glared daggers at her father.

"Did I say something to make you think differently?" Angus asked looking about his motley crew of men as some of them joined in on the joke, laughing at her apparent idiocy.

"I…" Reagan swallowed, "No, I suppose you didn't. Why have we stopped?"

Her father reached into his cloak and Reagan feared he would pull that sharp dagger on her again but instead he only presented her with a small corked vial. Her relief was short lived as he removed the stopper and moved closer to her.

"I had feared that Nathaniel's trifle blow in the forest wouldn't effect your thick skull as I had hoped. I'm glad to know you're still as hard headed as you were when you were a child." Angus thrust the small vial at her, motioning sharply that she should take hold of it. Reagan motioned back with her bound hands, giving her father a sarcastic smile. When she made no motion toward taking it, her captor, Nathaniel, moved to her side, holding onto one of her elbows, his fingers digging into her flesh.

"I like to think of this as a back-up plan. Something to assure me that you'll not try to run away again." Reagan stared at the vial in her father's hand, knowing that he meant for her to drink it.

"You don't think binding my hands and feet--therefore rendering me helpless--wasn't assurance enough, father?" Angus leveled her with a steely glare and Reagan met it squarely. There was something in her father's eyes that she didn't like, a sort of blind resignation that didn't bode well for either of them.

"Helpless? You've managed to get one foot loose, I see." Reagan desperately tried tucking one foot behind the other so it would look as if she were still bound, while her eyes darted around wildly searching for any means of escape. If only she could get to her feet, if only she could run. Forming a flimsy plan of attack in her head, her quick thoughts were cut off by her father's next words.

"Why must you make everything so difficult? I have no wish to hurt you, Reagan."

Bringing her attention back to her father she narrowed her eyes at him, "No, instead you hired someone else to bully me." She jerked her head toward Nathaniel and blinked in mock innocence at him before looking back at her father with glittering eyes.

"This proves beyond a doubt that Rullus was right about you. You really are a coward."

"Enough! You will hold that sharp tongue or else you'll lose it!" Stepping closer to her, Reagan shrank away from him instinctively, and tried one last attempt to reason with her father. Feeling close to tears she forced the words out from somewhere deep down within her.

"Please don't do this, if you ever loved me you would let me go." He seemed to hesitate at her words, a bevy of emotions skittering across his face before he replied.

"I did love you once, but that was a long time ago. After your mother died I couldn't stand to look at you. You've always been strong, able to take care of yourself. But I was left wondering who was going to take care of me? When you wanted to spend more time with those priests than with your own father, I soon came to realize that though you may look like your mother, you're, sadly, nothing like her." The ghost of a sad smile crossed Angus' craggy features as he addressed her.

There were so many good memories tied to that face, a face that now belonged to a stranger. It was a tragic reminder of the simple life she had once lived. Powerful regret stirred Reagan and she wished that things had turned out differently.

"I am beholden to Rullus, Reagan. I have no choice," he finished in a tone that brooked no argument. Angus grabbed her face, holding her chin tightly with one of his hands. The action forced her mouth open against her will.

"You will drink this and you will not fight me." There was a frantic edge to his voice that made her blanch in reaction. Trying to turn her face away without success, her father pressed the vial between her lips, forcing her head back and sending a stream of bitter tasting liquid down her throat.

Angered and frightened that he had forced the poison on her, she reacted on instinct drawing away when he released her and holding her breath against the desire to swallow. Some of the drink had made it down her throat but a majority of it she'd managed to hold back.

In one last act of defiance Reagan drew back and spat the stuff in her father's face. He howled in anger, wiping his face on the sleeve of his tunic as the liquid dripped from his eyes. Nathaniel came at her, once more pinning her tightly before he smacked her hard across the face in retaliation.

The resounding crack from the blow sounded like thunder in her ears. Reagan blinked, her eyes going in and out of focus. Blood trickled from her mouth and stained her skirt. She stared at it while she heard her father say a blistering string of words that she didn't quite register. Fear overtook her as the entire scene started to fade before her.

Holding on to the last shreds of her dim reality, Reagan felt herself begin to fall backward and prayed silently to whatever gods would listen, that she would make it through this alive.

And if she did, she vowed she would repay her father tenfold for everything he had inflicted upon her for the sake of his own greed and the ghost of woman long dead.

* * *

Lancelot stared at the simple yet effective message. At one point through his rush of intense denial and anger he was unable to process exactly what he was seeing. He slowly blinked at the shining lock of dark hair lying in his palm. It seemed almost black against the creamy whiteness of the cloth, before he folded his fist around it and crushed the tender fabric and its precious contents.

He looked at the boy before him, lying bloody and broken on the bed as several people, Arthur included hovered around him. Tristan had found Lucan half stumbling, half crawling his way out at the edges of the forest. When the scout was spotted carrying someone injured into the fort, and that that someone turned out to be Dagonet's squire, all hell broke loose.

Lucan continued to mumble incoherently about a strange woman and a dense fog, which Arthur attributed to his beating and paid it no heed. Ivy and Dagonet desperately tried to help him.

Lucan's right arm and nose were broken, both his eyes were black and his face and tunic were a bloody mess. The boy was in bad shape, and Dagonet was not taking it well despite his calm appearance. Even more distressing was that Ivy appeared to be on the very verge of weeping, blaming herself for not keeping a more vigilant eye Reagan and Lucan.

Arthur quickly assured the healer that it was not her fault and summoned Galahad before Ivy broke down completely. Lancelot stared at the chaos surrounding him and realized dimly that there was never a night where the healing rooms sat quiet. Tonight, however, the din seemed to ring in his ears as loud and piercing as the thundering of his own heart.

_Damn that foolish, headstrong, stupid girl!_ Why did she not listen to him when he'd begged her to stay within the protection of the wall? Why did she seek to defy him at every turn? Now she was gone and it was all because of her own stubborn pride and his unyielding foolish faith in her promise that she was missing. If she were here now he'd throttle her for such a blatant act of disobedience.

But that was the problem. Reagan wasn't here and a sharp sensation of fear so keen it was painful shot through him at the thought.

Lancelot had stepped away from the crowd, and stalked toward the stables without even realizing what he was doing. Before anyone could stop him, he was saddling Malachi, taking stock of his weapons and wondering if he should waste precious time donning his armor. Only then did he even realize that he'd been followed.

He looked up at the two men, his brows drawn together. Galahad and Tristan instinctively took a step back at his black expression. Lancelot knew he looked crazed, but it was only a small shadow of how he was feeling at the moment. The piece of cloth was still clutched in his hand; he stared down at it feeling as if his entire world was slipping away from him.

They had found her. They had taken her. And Lancelot had been completely unaware of it even happening. A bitter sense of self-loathing that he'd been unable to protect his own woman churned like acid in his gut.

"We're going with you," he heard Tristan say, the scout's voice sounding strange as it cut through the ringing in his ears, and he felt himself nod.

Lancelot knew it would be foolish to go storming into Waldenham alone, swords drawn and in a raging temper demanding they return Reagan. At least with Galahad and Tristan along they could assist him in the search for her and keep him calm enough to see reason.

But reason was now eluding him and somehow he could not stop himself from asking a question he'd been burning to ask since he'd learned of it.

"What _exactly_ did you see in the forest, Tristan? Since you failed to elaborate the last time you brought up the topic!" The vehemence in his own voice was more than a little accusatory and Tristan didn't even react. Lancelot knew by the scout's drawn out silence that he'd been wrong to ask him in the first place.

"I saw nothing." The scout's gaze was steady and uncompromising and Lancelot felt his blood begin to boil before Tristan continued. "I saw nothing but a mist, a strange and heavy mist that could not be explained. I bought it to Arthur's attention because it is not normal."

"A mist?" Lancelot stared at Tristan before narrowed his eyes at the scout who continued to gaze at him as if he expected this sort of incredulous reaction. "You warned Arthur of a _mist_ in the forest? You saw no tracks? No makeshift camp? No sign of men?" the scout shrugged his shoulders, a taciturn gesture, and moved toward Skye as if this line of questioning was of no real import.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," he replied, saddling the mare with a detachment that spoke of his own uncertainties about the topic.

"Nothing out of the ordinary except a bloody MIST!" Lancelot felt his jaw clench and he fought the urge to lunge himself at Tristan. "Reagan is gone because you were distracted by a goddamn fog?!" Tristan turned on him then in one sharp movement, but Lancelot held his ground stubbornly against his approach.

"Reagan is missing because she failed to obey. That was not of my doing. The forest is not right. There is something in there that I cannot explain. And until I can, you would do well to stay out of it." Tristan rarely raised his voice, but before either man could react further, Galahad stepped between them both, effectively putting an end to their argument.

"Strange mists and kidnapped women aside, we have a mission to undertake. You both would benefit from donning your armor and gathering what is left of the rations. We have a ride ahead of us." Both men looked at Galahad as if he'd just broken into song and dance, so unexpected was his command of the situation.

"Ivy would never forgive me if I didn't bring her friend back in one piece. I think you both would agree that there is no need to waste precious time standing here arguing with each other when Reagan is doubtlessly in danger."

Tristan gave Lancelot a crisp nod, signaling that their discussion was over for the moment.

Lancelot didn't feel the guilt he should have at his outburst. If anything he was consumed with worry for Reagan. His overwhelming concern for her welfare overrode anything else at the present.

Was she frightened? Was she hurt? It was her sense of headstrong bravery that worried him the most. And he knew better than anyone how her temper and her biting tongue could entice a man into a rage.

"Come, we have no time to lose. If they are foolish enough to take Reagan back to Waldenham we will find her there," Galahad offered, as he quickly saddled his own horse.

"Finn is bringing our weapons, we will depart with in the hour. Arthur has given his consent. Should you kill this man, Rullus, no one will stand in your way."

At those words, a bitter and dark sense of purpose flooded Lancelot. He would find Reagan, aye, and if she were harmed in any way, he vowed that his vengeance would be neither swift nor merciful.

* * *

Reagan was having the worst nightmare imaginable. Feeling the stirrings of unease creep through her, she breathed a sigh of relief against the soft pillows realizing that maybe it had all been a bad dream.

"Oh Lancelot, I had the worst sort of dream…"she murmured. Snuggling herself further into the bed, she turned, blindly seeking the warm body she knew would be right next to her. When she came in contact with a soft billowy mass that smelled heavily of unwashed skin and not the familiar comfort of hard sinew and muscle, her eyes flew open.

"Tell me all about it, my dear," came a voice, which Reagan recognized at once, its tones slick and enunciated, not the deep, rich voice she had so foolishly hoped to hear.

She wasn't having a nightmare at all--this was real.

Reagan choked back a scream as she realized Rullus was holding her to his body, one arm about her waist, as he curled himself against her on the bed like a lover. She blinked slowly, feeling the effects of whatever drug her father had managed to force on her the night before, begin to fade with startling swiftness.

Too stunned and frightened to move, Reagan involuntarily flinched as Rullus reached down and stroked a dark lock of hair out of her eyes. He fingered the tendril a moment longer than was necessary. His smile was as slithery as the tone of his voice.

"A bit boyish, but it suits you and I rather like it." The way he enunciated the word _boyish_, shed a new light on his well-known reputation for favoring girls who had yet to celebrate their twelfth birthday. Reagan felt herself recoil in horror at the realization.

Feeling bile rise in her throat and casting the final cobwebs of sleep from her eyes, Reagan pushed herself out of his grasp and rolled off the mattress in one swift movement. Scrambling to her feet she took in her surroundings with a disbelieving eye.

Dim realization dawned that her bindings had been removed, but she'd been effectively caged before she could escape.

The room was cluttered and dark, a burning candle in the far corner casting just enough light to make out a massive bed placed directly in front of a fireplace, its ashes long cold, and, of course, her very unwelcome and unwanted companion.

Sending a prayer of thanksgiving to the lord above that she was still fully clothed, Reagan took note that Rullus was not and she turned away in horrified realization. Memories of the previous night assailed her, and her father's betrayal stung like an open wound.

"You're father was more than a willing pawn to get you back. Funny, isn't it, that the lure of silver outweighs the love for a daughter?" Rullus' cold chuckle made her shudder in reaction.

"Your methods of persuasion astound me." Reagan managed, setting her jaw, "You must know that I will never consent to be your bride. Not even if you murdered every other man on earth!" Rullus had the audacity to laugh at her tirade. The grating cackle made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. He leaned against the bedpost; the slouching position made him seem shorter, heavier and lazier. His gaze once more raked up and down her body.

"Luckily for you, I have every intention of withdrawing my offer for your hand. There would be no good reason why I would want to marry damaged goods. But, even though I've lost my interest in wedding you, I have not lost my intent in bedding you," he finished with a thin-lipped smile.

Reagan's first and only reaction to the casually spoken confession was to flee. She backed away, only to bump into a table, barely stopping herself from taking a spill. Rullus' black beady gaze was trained on her as she tried to control her breathing and come to grips with the situation she now found herself in.

Sliding away from the bed, Rullus reached for a robe to cover himself and Reagan hastily stepped backward at his approach putting the small table between them.

"Stay away. Do not come any closer!" The tremble in her voice sounded pitiful even to her own ears.

"Come now, girl, you've eluded me for months, do not put such trifle barriers between us." His lips pulled back from his yellowed teeth in a semblance of a smile, which did not meet his eyes. Reagan swallowed hard at the glint of malice she saw there instead.

He intended to do her harm, there was no doubt of that.

Rullus' retribution would be slow. She knew it would be painful and he would relish every moment of her torment. With her throat working she managed, "You were the reason I ran in the first place. I would rather die than lie with you!" Rullus' eye twitched at her tone as he began to slowly stalk toward her.

"Be careful what you wish for Reagan, because believe me that could be arranged."

Casting about for any type of weapon, Reagan grabbed on to the first thing she could see—a dull serving knife among the clutter scattered about on the surface of the table. It wouldn't do much in the way of bodily harm, but at least it was a knife. Fisting her fingers around her weapon she held it out in front of her poised for attack.

"Keep away from me. I will cut you!" A cold rumble of laughter was his only response to her desperate shout.

"The little kitten has claws," he drawled. "I suppose I should thank that dark-haired knight for breaking you in for me." He began, "Without the hindrance of your maidenhead, I had hoped that you would be more willing to accept my attentions. You spread your thighs for him so very willingly, I was told."

Reagan blinked stunned at the change in topic. She was unwilling to comprehend sharing his bed the same way she had Lancelot's. Before she could form a proper comeback his ruddy, round face contorted with rage. Rullus leaned against the table, his robe gaping over his sweaty chest and round belly as addressed her in nothing short of a shout.

"Whoring yourself to him. Giving away freely what was mine by right!" She had no time to think, no time to properly react as he tossed the thin barrier of the table away and grabbed for her. Reagan acted purely on instinct and swung the knife at him in a wide arc.

Rullus managed to dodge it easily before he went into a full rage. Shrieking, Reagan stumbled to get away from him, but the room was too cluttered for her to manage a swift and proper escape, and she tripped over an overturned chair.

"Don't be stupid, you bitch, you'll not get away from me this time," he spat before grabbing for her. Reagan turned and swung again, this time her blow connected soundly with his face and he grunted in pain before he knocked the knife from her grasp in one swipe. Reagan watched, dismayed, as it skittered away from her, pin wheeling across the uneven stone floor, seconds before Rullus grabbed her arm, dragging her to the ground with him.

She kicked and clawed her way out of his grasp crawling her way across the floor only to feel his fingers wrap around her ankle and drag her back seconds later pinning her to the ground.

His massive and smelly body ground against hers as struggled to get free. _This would not happen to her again, never again_, she thought, even as she felt him pulling viciously on the bodice of her dress, tearing the fabric as if it were parchment.

Looking up into his crazed black eyes, as a trickle of blood ran down his cheek from where she'd managed to cut him, Reagan did the first thing she could think of. She screamed. The blood curdling sound was enough to make him blanch. He slapped her soundly, the sting of his hand silencing her instantly.

"Play nicely Reagan and you may even enjoy this," he sneered as he flexed his pelvis into hers.

Reagan contorted her face into what she hoped looked like a pitiable expression. He looked pleased by this right before she drew back and spat in his face.

"Rot in hell, you pig," she responded viciously, watching as he wiped his face with his sleeve, his anger a tangible thing.

Taking his momentary distraction as a good sign, she managed to maneuver her legs just enough and when her knee came into contact with that tender space between his legs, his cry of pain was loud enough to make her ears ring.

Scrambling out from under him, she skidded to the door, banging on it with her fists, screaming for help. Rullus managed to stagger to his feet behind her and Reagan failed to turn in time. Spinning her around, he managed to throw her back against the door; her head connected with a thud against the wood, dazing her, seconds before he reached for her throat.

"You little whore, you think to unman me?" He seethed as he squeezed her throat and Reagan helplessly clawed at his fingers. Her legs flailing, she kicked at him with fading strength. Something bounced against her thigh and Reagan reached for it. Thinking only of survival, wrapping her fingers around her talisman she drew back her arm, just as Lancelot had taught her, and brought the force of her fist against Rullus' face.

The resounding crack of bone breaking rendered heavy in the thick silence of the dark room. Immediately he released her and Reagan dragged in heavy gulps of air into her aching throat, coughing. Blood poured profusely from Rullus' freshly broken nose and never had she been so proud of herself.

Her triumph was short lived, however, when Rullus staggered to his feet and bellowed for his guards. The door behind her was flung open and Reagan went careening into the dark corridor like a rag doll. Pain shot through her as she made contact with the stone floor. Scrambling to get to her feet, her muddled senses warned her that she should run. Before she could act, she was forcefully dragged up by two of Rullus' men.

She jerked against them, struggling to get free. "I would have made you my mistress and you would have lacked for nothing, you ungrateful bitch! You have defied me for the last time." Rullus jerked the sash of his robe together as he stalked toward her. His fresh wounds made his bloody face look even more menacing.

"The villagers have been hungering for a proper witch burning ever since you were declared one. I shall have to grant their wishes." He fisted his fingers into the torn bodice of her dress and pulled her toward him, the guards who held her arms preventing her escape. She realized dully that she was at the mercy of this madman and Reagan had never felt so vulnerable in her entire life. Rullus' breath was foul and harsh as he dealt his final blow.

"You have continually refused to bow and bend to my will, which as my _peasant_ is your duty." His hand stroked down her cheek in the mockery of a caress and Reagan fought against the urge to turn away from it as she glared silently at him.

"You made your own bed when you denied me and ran away. You could have made this easy on yourself, but know, Reagan, that you only have yourself to blame when you feel the heat of those flames lick at your skin." Rullus abruptly released her and she sagged against the two guards, as a dark sense of fear seemed to melt her bones.

Reagan knew there was no way she could misconstrue his words. This was no idle threat, no trifle thing, and she was fully aware that Rullus had true authority to issue such a punishment and no one would dare stop him. Reagan's own sense of hopelessness was so profound she felt as if she would never fully understand the depths of Rullus' dark and twisted mind.

"And if my plan works, which it will, your beloved knight will arrive just in time to watch you burn." It was his final promise that made Reagan truly realize the consequences of her actions.

As the guards began to drag her away, she was positive that Lancelot on his way to her this very minute. The idea should have made her rally, but there was no moment of assurance that everything would be all right. Only the deep-seated and frightening knowledge that she was unwittingly leading him straight into Rullus' vengeful and very dangerous clutches.

**AN: Lancelot is going to be super pissed when he arrives in ****Waldenham,**** Galahad and Tristan in tow. I can only imagine the depths of his wrath. I'm almost afraid for ****Rullus****. Almost.**

** Chapter 26 is in outline form and I will try to get it to you by my birthday- one month from today (as I'm leaving for DISNEY WORLD to celebrate the big 3-0! OMG! I'm going to be thirty!). Work has been hectic and crazy leaving me hardly any energy to write. Silent Knight is coming along and its something I'm enjoying working on in between the down time with Eternal. Thank you to everyone who read/reviewed/added alerts/favorites after chapter 24.**

** I do hope this action packed chapter doesn't disappoint! Until Chapter 26! Happy Reading! **


	26. Chapter 26

**No money is being made from this. I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story. I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**HUGE THANKS AGAIN TO THE BETA TEAM! You guys rock! :) Any mistakes within the text are completely my own. **

**Sorry for the long wait on this chapter! It is entirely my fault. I wanted to get this to you as quickly as I could. I'm not going to keep you waiting much longer for the final chapter- I promise! **

"_The brave man is not he who feels no fear. For that were stupid and irrational. But he, whose noble soul its fears subdues, and bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from.__"_ - **Joanna Baillie**

Chapter 26

_There is no way I can get out of this by myself_, was Reagan's first thought, as the cell doors slammed shut behind her with echoing finality. Pressing her hand to her mouth, her eyes darted wildly about the small cramped cell she'd just been thrust into. It was dark, the air was damp and the smell of putrid human waste hung heavily around her. The Dungeons of Waldenham left much to be desired when it came to basic hospitality.

Choking back a wave of nausea, Reagan tried to get her tired eyes to adjust to her bleak surroundings. There was a small pallet of dirty straw in one corner, rusty iron manacles hung limply on the opposite wall and she stifled a shiver of fear at the terrifying image they presented. A sliver of weak sunlight weaved its way through the bars of a single tiny window, a beacon to the outside world that was now cut off to her. Sadly, she realized it was too high off the ground for her to reach.

With that thought, it was as if everything hit her at once and the stark reality of what she'd just lived through turned her knees to jelly. A sick sort of trembling weakness hit her in waves; Reagan pressed her back against one wall as the last of her fading strength left her. She slid down it, not heeding the rough scrape of the stone against her tender skin as a brief and intense feeling of fear stole over her.

Feeling her eyes fill with tears, she furiously blinked them away. She clutched the torn bodice of her dress together and relived the terror she'd felt being at Rullus' mercy. Twice that horrible, sick bastard had tried to rape her, and by sheer force of will she'd managed to escape him each time. If she could do that then surely she could manage to escape this dungon cell.

The only things that stood between her and precious freedom were a looming pair of iron-barred doors and two rather large and menacing looking guards, with very sharp and dangerous-looking swords. Reagan soon realized that while she may have been a match for Rullus even with a carving knife, she was weaponless now. Her trusty, dull little dagger littered the floor of the forest back in Camelot.

All that remained in her possession was her talisman. The tiny beastie was curled in her fist, stained with Rullus' blood, and it was the only thing that gave her any sense of buoyancy in the otherwise bleak and sinking darkness. Feeling completely helpless was something she was not accustomed to.

Unable to make any motion to move from her crouched position on the cold floor, Reagan watched through narrowed eyes as the guards grew more and more lax in their duties. As the hours drew on, the dungeon became darker and the guards more negligent, one even falling asleep. _Lucky bastard_, she thought, before turning her face to gaze at the bright moonlight that seemed to weave between the iron bars of her tiny window.

"Get up, wench!" One of the guards bellowed, the shout jerking Reagan out of her half-doze. At some point she must have closed her eyes. Her neck was sore, her mouth tasted foul and her current reality smacked her in the face with such awareness she snapped to attention. Her sharply indrawn breath sounded harsh even to her own ears.

"On your feet! Now!" The man commanded as he twisted the key in the lock. Hesitant to obey, she slowly rose keeping her back to the wall, tense, but alert. Watching her with wary eyes the guard stepped aside as a cloaked figure slowly crossed the threshold of her cell. Something passed between her visitor and the guard, an object slyly slipping from one hand to another. It was an odd exchange and one that passed too quickly for her to discern exactly what happened.

The loud clang of her cell doors slamming shut made her jump despite herself. A wooden crucifix swung gracefully against the brown fabric of the man's cloak and it caught her eye. Reagan stared at it, transfixed by the sight, a strange sense of familiarity niggling the corners of her exhausted mind.

"I've come, my child, to read you your last rights," the man said loudly, and Reagan watched in utter disbelief as a wrinkled white hand reached up and slid back the hood. Father William. Feeling as if this might all be a dream, it took every ounce of will she had not to push herself from the wall and throw her arms around him. Trembling with the effort, Reagan managed to stay rooted to the spot as her beloved priest made a great show of reaching for a worn, leather bound bible from the voluminous folds of his cloak.

Father William smiled at her innocently, and Reagan blinked in response. He looked over his shoulder, and Reagan noticed that her two lazy guards cradled two rather large jugs of Communion wine in their burly paws; they took hearty swigs, jeering at each over the rims. Again, the priest focused his attention on her, his smile growing ever wider.

Moving closer to her he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and Reagan was unable to stifle a flinch at the contact. Immediately Father William's expression grew grave as his eyes roved over her disheveled form, lingering upon the multiple dark bruises on her neck and the torn bodice of her dress.

"It appears we've come full circle doesn't it, Reagan?" She nodded in response, a weak and watery smile trembling on her lips. "Did he… succeed this time?" Reagan completely understood father William's implications and did not hesitate to allay his fears.

"No," she opened her palm and presented her talisman. The priest stared at the figurine, a look of puzzlement crossing his features. "Despite all appearances to the contrary, I have my own sort of protection." Father William didn't catch her full meaning, but the look of relief that crossed the older man's face was a welcome sight to behold and the knot of anxiety in Reagan's stomach subsided somewhat.

"I suppose our disguise wasn't as successful as I had prayed it would be. I wish we had been able to prevent this from happening." Reagan shook her head at his words, unwilling to let him or Father Daniel blame themselves for her current state.

"Is it true they tortured Father Daniel?" She managed to croak, her voice scratchy and her throat sore, a reminder of Rullus' attempt to squeeze the life from her. Father William's stark expression was answer enough.

"He is recovering as best as he can, but I'm left to run the rectory alone while he is healing. He's always been a strong man, Reagan, and God has helped see him through."

"I'm so sorry I brought this upon you," she whispered sincerely, her eyes filling with tears.

"Do not be sorry, Reagan, for we are not. You are so very dear to us." Reagan didn't know how to form a reply so she remained silent as Father William put a more respectable distance between them, knowing they had an audience. Reagan peered over the priest's shoulder to find both of her guards appearing rather the worse for wear . Looking back at Father William, there was an alert and knowing expression in his eyes that Reagan took to mean she should hold her tongue.

"You have caused quite a stir amongst the villagers, my dear," he said as if he were commenting on the weather; Reagan could only manage a nod. "Rullus has plans for you, even now they are working at such a pace as I have never witnessed. The stake and the pyre have been set. Plans for a celebratory feast are already underway and they are saying by this time tomorrow the Witch of Waldenham will have been brought to justice." Reagan blanched at this. Hearing the events planned in honor of her execution made her stomach churn.

Father William leaned in closer to her, lowering his voice, and said with certainty; "but that will not happen." It was then that he covertly passed something into Reagan's trembling hands. She looked down to find another brown cloak, an exact match of the one he wore.

"Put it behind your back until I leave. I will only be gone a few short moments. The wine I bribed the guards with was laced with a heavy amount of _withania somnifera_, a most potent sleeping aid. They should be napping in a matter of minutes." Reagan felt herself swallow hard at his obvious implications. Father William was going to help her escape. Again.

He turned quickly to shield her before he called out to the guards. Reagan watched with a canny eye as the guard shuffled to her door, fumbling with the key, his movements not as coordinated as they once were. He finally managed to get the door unlocked and Father William exited her cell. Nodding to the man she watched the priest go only a short distance.

Reagan resumed her position crouched on the opposite wall of her cell, which afforded her a nice view of the guards. As if on cue the second guard collapsed in a heap outside her door. Father William was clever, and from now on Reagan would always think twice before she accepted any kind of drink from him. Assuming of course that she lived long enough for the opportunity to present itself.

Quickly Reagan slipped the cloak over her head. It was too large but its size offered her the concealment she so desperately needed. Father William scrambled for the keys from the unconscious guards and made quick work of getting her cell door unlocked. They stumbled over the fallen men and Reagan was once again surprised at the boldness of this priest.

"Come quickly, child. We must make haste before we are discovered!" Pulling the hood over her head Reagan followed Father William up the narrow stairs. He pushed open the door ,exiting the dungeons to the outside world and hesitated for a moment while he made sure the coast was clear.

"You must go first. Head straight to the chapel--do not speak to anyone. Do not look up. I will follow you shortly. It is my hope that everyone is too distracted to notice two priests exiting the dungeons when only one entered." Reagan nodded and swallowed hard, a familiar sense of fear and anticipation making her thoughts race.

She would have to pass through several dark and winding corridors and slip out through the main doors that lead into the courtyard before she could actually make it outside. Reagan doubted that she would do so without being caught.

At Father William's forceful prod, she felt herself stumble across the threshold. With one fleeting look backward, the dark and menacing shadows of dungeons stared back at her and it was all the encouragement she needed.

She quickly stepped outside, following the priest's instructions to the letter. Before she knew it and much to her surprise, she had managed to slip through the shadows of the great hall completely unnoticed. Keeping her head down and using her peripheral vision to guide her, Reagan counted every step and tried to ignore the activity going on around her.

She was so intent on getting to the chapel that she didn't notice that the villagers' attention was not focused on her, but something all together different. Had she not been concentrating so hard she would have taken note of the ruckus. As it was, the low murmurs and the overt awareness of the crowd didn't even faze her.

It was, however, the shout that echoed through the village that made her stop dead in her tracks, drawing unwanted attention her way.

"_WHAT have you done with my woman?_" It was a demand and an accusation rolled into one. Reagan was unable to smother a grin both at the dark tone and its heavy implications.

She would have known that voice anywhere. She'd heard it in her thoughts often enough over the past few hours, reciting a familiar refrain chastising her for her own foolishness.

Lancelot had come for her.

* * *

Lancelot had unsuccessfully tried to reign in his temper. He told himself that he would be a great deal civil to this Rullus- not that he deserved it. He would be diplomatic about Reagan's abduction and if forced into it he would bargain for her safety. In his mind, Reagan's life was paramount to any trifling squabble amongst the nobility. The more politic he was about the whole thing the less likely this would end in bloodshed.

He held onto this mindset until they were welcomed somewhat hesitantly into the gates of Waldenham. He would have on any other day enjoyed the sight. It was a well-kept village and the people that inhabited the place looked well cared for if not a bit worn around the edges. It was then that he spied the freshly erected wooden stake with a neatly piled pyre surrounding the base of it.

There was no way he could have missed such a thing-- they had to steer their horses around it to get to the villa. It sat directly in the middle of the square; an ominous symbol surrounded by welcoming buildings and innocent looking villagers. The paradox of such a blatant symbol of execution in such an innocuous looking place was not lost on him.

At the sight, something inside him snapped. He'd been able to control his rioting emotions quite well during the trek from Camelot. It had also helped that Tristan and Galahad had not decided to engage him in conversation so he could focus his thoughts. It wasn't until he was presented with the grim reality of the situation and the obvious intent of harm to anyone best of all Reagan had Lancelot gone from reasonable to full on rage in the blink of an eye.

He dismounted swiftly from Malachi, tossing his reigns to a hapless stable boy. Galahad and Tristan followed suit. They were unable to ignore the curious and awestruck crowd that surrounded them due to their unheralded arrival. It was not everyday that the villagers of Waldenham were presented with royalty, let alone knights that were revered and well known throughout the kingdom. Ignoring their unconcealed curiosity, Lancelot stormed up the steps, Galahad and Tristan on his heels as they sensed his urgency.

There was no hesitation this time as both of the bumbling guards bade them enter, pushing open the heavy doors while casting the three wary glances. _Good_, Lancelot thought_, let them fear us, for they certainly have every right to_. He could not help but note that Tristan was taking particular delight in the reactions he garnered from some of the passer-bys. He was always one that enjoyed intimidation as it came to him naturally and he was in his element when some of the more unfortunate townsfolk shrank away from him instinctively. Galahad on the other hand smiled rather wanly, his eyes sparkling with mirth at their reactions and the hesitant welcome they were receiving.

The great hall was not so large as it was in Camelot, and the estate itself was much smaller than Lancelot remembered it being from his last visit so many years ago. The long table and the huge fireplace were exactly as he remembered. There appeared to be a feast taking place. It struck Lancelot as odd to say the least.

The mood was jovial and victorious and it was quickly dashed as they were announced. Several wide pairs of eyes slid their way and Lancelot felt himself grin darkly at everyone's startled reaction to their presence.

Rullus the elder was the first to acknowledge them. The man's health was obviously failing him but it was apparent the old Roman was loathe to show it. He stood on shaking legs to address them. "Welcome, good knights! It is a surprise that your king did not send me a summons that you would be arriving today."

"Arthur did not send a missive, my lord, because our visit was unplanned." Lancelot announced, keeping control of voice; the old man was not the reason he was here, it was the hulking man to his right that Lancelot had come to confront. Even as he slid his narrowed gaze to Rullus's son and namesake the man did not show any outward sign of guilt. Lancelot did, however, take note of the freshly tended wounds on his face.

There was a long cut on Rullus' cheek that appeared to have been recently stitched. His nose was black and blue and crooked-- a sure sign of a break. Rullus had recently been in a brawl, that much was obvious. Still the man's wounds did not improve his manners. If anything he appeared to be triumphant and smug. It made Lancelot itch to grab for one of the blades resting on his back.

"You have just arrived on a most auspicious day. We are having a feast in celebration, would you please join us!" Rullus the elder clapped his hands together and signaled that three more places should be made available at the table. None of the knights accepted the offer.

Lancelot looked back to watch Tristan grab for a few slices of apple from the table. At his imploring look Tristan responded with a lax shrug as he ate the fruit. Galahad simply nodded, his feet braced, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. It was all the permission he needed to forge ahead.

"I am at liberty to decline your offer, my lord. I wish to speak to your son -, is there somewhere we could go to privately discuss the reasons for our visit?"

The old Roman studied him with sharp eyes, he then looked at his son and something passed between the two of them that Lancelot didn't like.

"If you have something to say, you may say it to me. I am lord and master of this keep!" _Never underestimate the pride of the Romans_, Lancelot thought bitterly. If the old man wanted to drag this out in public then Lancelot knew which tactics would work best to get him the results he wanted: Reagan safe and alive.

"Very well. I have reason to believe that your son has taken something that does not belong to him. We have come it get it back," Lancelot stated clearly, trying to be as vague as possible. The growing attention of their impromptu audience was not lost on him.

"Come now," Rullus the elder stated in a patronizing tone. "Surly what ever it is you speak of can not mean so much to you that you would travel all these miles just to ask for it back."

"It means a great deal to me, my lord. I would like to know what your son might have done with it." The older Roman stood at his blatant accusation and narrowed his eyes at Lancelot.

"You have no right to come storming in here unannounced, pointing your finger at my son! I know for a fact that he has not left these lands in well over a fortnight. You are mistaken, good sir, in thinking my son has stolen something from you," the old man hissed, spittle flying.

"As it was by my king's good graces that you remain on these lands unchallenged, and as I am his second in command, you would do well to mind your tongue and realize exactly who is master here. _My lord_." Lancelot managed with no slight amount of derision in his tone. He watched as his words rang true and the older man looked at him with some semblance of begrudging respect.

Finally he could take no more, and Lancelot slowly and steadily walked to the head of the table, and as calmly as he could he directed his next question to the son, Rullus. "May I ask what is the meaning of the stake and pyre I see in your village square?" If the man lied to him he was going to slit him open from navel to nose. The younger man stood glaring at him with disdain, though his smug look remained.

"We are intending to bring one of our prisoners to justice. They have been accused of performing witchcraft. Something we do not abide here in this God-fearing country." At his words something dark and frightening stirred within Lancelot. Reagan was alive, or so it seemed, but she wouldn't be for long. He had to find her. He knew Reagan was here, he could feel it. He just didn't know where. And Lancelot knew Rullus would not give up his quarry easily.

"You still deny taking something from me?" He asked his tone low and menacing and Lancelot watched as a pulse in Rullus' eye twitched.

"I have not taken anything from you, my lord, that did not belong to me first." The other man stated with equal amounts of malice. Lancelot breathed through his nose sharply feeling the weak hold he had on his temper fade with startling swiftness.

As if on cue he reached for one of his blades and the sound of unsheathed steel rang through the hall like a death knell. Slowly and steadily he leveled the point at Rullus' throat and asked the question he'd wanted to ask since he'd rode through the gates.

"_WHAT_ have you done with my woman?!" His shout seemed to echo in the great hall and several startled gasps cut through his red haze of rage. Rullus gave him a thin-lipped smile. His eyes did not once stray to the sword so close to his skin. He pressed himself closer to the blade, as if daring Lancelot to run him through. Lancelot watched as the tip pierced Rullus' skin, a fine line of blood trickling from the cut.

"Nothing that she didn't beg me to do," Rullus replied with surprising audacity. Had it not been for Tristan and Galahad, Lancelot would have killed the wretched man then. The pair had anticipated this, however, and moved swiftly, pulling him back with no small amount of effort on their part.

"Mind yourself, Lancelot," Galahad warned. "He's baiting you. We need him to lead us to Reagan. Killing him would defeat that purpose." It was always at the most inopportune moments that Galahad's astute sense of reason seemed to make itself apparent. Nodding in reluctant agreement, Lancelot managed to lower his sword.

"We are finished here," His voice cut through the thick, stunned silence of the hall. He pointed at Rullus, a scowl of distaste twisting his features, "If you value your life, you will take us to her now. If you refuse, I shall end you here in front of your father and your lackeys. I promise you, it would be a most dishonorable, painful and humiliating way to die." Lancelot watched with grim determination, as Rullus seemed to mull over words as if he was choosing his best course of action.

It was then that Rullus the elder stood again; just as he was about to speak, Tristan stepped to the forefront. He unsheathed his sword in one graceful yet lethal movement and the old man stood staring at the long dangerous blade with wide eyes.

"You. Sit." He ordered sharply and the old man sank with wobbly legs into his chair with no protest.

Then Tristan turned to Rullus. "Move. Now." His voice was rough and grating and there was no doubt of his intent. This time Rullus did not hesitate. Genuine fear in his eyes, he decided the best course of action would be to cooperate--at least for the time being. Lancelot pushed the man forward, indicating that he should start walking.

Roughly grabbing onto the back of the man's over tunic he said, "If she is harmed in any way, I will not hesitate to kill you." Rullus looked back at him with disdain, a sly smile curving his lips. Rullus led them down a dark corridor and an even darker set of winding stairs. Grabbing onto one of the torches, Galahad pushed himself to the front of the line, kicking at the unlocked door. It swung open, banging against the interior wall with extreme force.

Almost at once they were overcome with the smell of human waste, and unwashed bodies. Had it not been for the lit torches that sparsely lined the walls they would, no doubt, have had a very difficult time seeing anything less than five feet in front of their noses. Galahad waved his torch in front of him and beckoned them forward. Lancelot shoved Rullus in front of him and smiled a bit when the man stumbled slightly from the force.

For a dungeon, there was a distinct lack of guards and prisoners, Lancelot noticed. When they finally stopped at one of the cells the sight before them made everyone stop dead in their tracks.

Two hulking guards lay prone on the ground. Ceramic jugs cradled in their loose arms bore the distinct and recognizable symbol of the cross. A growl of rage managed to escape Rullus and Lancelot almost instantly noticed the change in the man. He went from limp and compliant to complete and utter madman in seconds. Breaking loose, Rullus stalked toward the sleeping guards, picking up the ceramic jugs and smashing them on the floor causing their contents to ooze over the men and stain their clothing like blood.

"Damn those priests!" Rullus shouted, his voice booming off the walls. "They dare to make a fool of me once more!" Lancelot suppressed the urge to roll his eyes as the man smashed the last of the jugs against the wall in his fit of temper. Having had his fill of Rullus' show of pique, Lancelot once more grabbed the man by his tunic and threw him against the open cell doors, the contact of his body making a sick-crunching sound and momentarily stunning the man. He slid down to the floor, limply gazing up at the knight though glassy, angry eyes. Lancelot had no time for the man's histrionics: he had come for Reagan and he would get her back at any cost. Kneeling on the man's level he gazed at Rullus, at once filled with righteous disdain and inherent loathing.

"You may rage all you want once we are gone and I am delivered Reagan. As you can plainly see you have led us to an empty cell. You may seek to lead us on a merry chase, but in the end you will take me to her or you will die." Lancelot felt his lips curl into a chilling smile and gathered much satisfaction when his meaning finally began to sink into the man's thick skull. "It is as simple as that." Rullus smiled wanly in response though his grin failed to stir in Lancelot one ounce of remorse.

"I don't know where she is," came the unacceptable answer. Lancelot felt himself slip from that place of conscious and careful intimidation and into that ruthless, nameless place he only reserved for battle.

It could have been seconds, minutes or hours but time did pass and it wasn't until he was being subdued by both Tristan and Galahad did he realize his fists were stained with blood and Rullus lay prone and beaten on the floor of the dungeons. Trying in vain to steady his breathing, the haze of red that had covered his vision began to fade and was quickly replaced by a fear that so sharp he almost collapsed from it. Had they failed? Had they come so close only to realize too late that she'd fallen victim to this madman?

Lancelot refused to believe that she was dead. He knew that Reagan was out there, somewhere, and he had almost beaten senseless his only key to finding her. A hopelessness he hadn't felt in years began to run icy cold in his veins until it threatened to choke him. Had he not been so wrapped up in his own thoughts he would have heard the sound. Perhaps he would have noticed what had so keenly gathered Tristan and Galahad's attention. As it was, Lancelot could hardly hear anything over the ringing in his ears.

But it was there as forceful, commanding and rhythmic as a drum beat, and as chilling as a winter's wind. The villagers were chanting. The pure whitewashed walls of Waldenham rang with the sounds of their impassioned cries: "Witch! Witch! Witch!"

At once he looked at both Tristan and Galahad: there was no time to speak, only time to act and above it all he heard the cry that snapped him back from the edge insanity. Her voice cut above all of the others, her shrill and frightened scream that would echo in his memory for decades as he raced to reach her.

"_LANCELOT!_"

**AN: Chapter 27 is finished- I have a bit of revising to do, so look for it very soon. Only one chapter and the epilogue left (that's a cliffhanger too- please don't be mad at me). We're almost done. Hopefully you find Reagan and Lancelot's ending as satisfying and sappy as I did :) I leave for Las Vegas in one week. You'll have the next chapter by then. **

**Until Chapter 27 HAPPY READING! **


	27. Chapter 27

**No money is being made from this. I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story. I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**To the beta team: I can not express how much the three of you have helped me and the story in the two years it took me to write this. Leigh, I love you. You already know that (plus now that this is done I've promised you girly drinks, I know you'll collect)! Jo, your insight and creative criticism has helped me so much, that this story wouldn't be what it is with out your input. Murt, your helpful comments and willingness to take this story on as a third beta lets me know you're in for the long haul. FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART THANK-YOU SO MUCH. This story really owes its popularity and legibility to you three- the goddesses of editing! :)**

**I won't keep you waiting any longer :)**

"_Love is the emblem of eternity; it confounds all notion of time; effaces all memory of a beginning, all fear of an end_."- **Anne Louise Germaine de Stael**

Chapter 27

"_LANCELOT!_" The scream was ripped from Reagan's sore throat with such ardent ferocity that it momentarily stopped her captors and made the feverish crowd go silent. It hadn't dawned on her that stopping and gazing back at the villa would prove to be the first mistake in a long line of many to follow. But then again, anything that involved Lancelot proved to be Reagan's folly.

And it wasn't until her flimsy disguise was rendered useless by none other than her very own father did she fully believe that there were other forces at work against her.

Sanctuary had been within her grasp and Father William and been close on her heels, the pair of them walking briskly toward the church, when she'd had the ultimate misfortune to stumble over a prone body, a body that had been passed out from drink-- a body that belonged to her father. At once he was roused and swaying unsteadily on his feet, glaring at the pair of cloaked figures before him as if he were staring at spirits from another world.

Then to Reagan's mortification he began to weep. He wept openly and loudly like a babe, clutching onto her so forcefully he threatened to drag her back to the ground with him. "Forgive me, Father!" he cried, "Please forgive me!" He tugged on Reagan's hem forcing her to bend downward toward him.

This was her second mistake, she realized as came face to face with her drunken, crazed, self-pitying father.

His blood-shot eyes widened in disbelief seconds before he let out a small choking laugh. He pushed her away with such force it knocked her off her feet and she went tumbling to the ground, completely dazed. Father William rushed to her side in an attempt to help her, but just as she reached for his outstretched hand the priest was tackled to the ground. Her father had finally crossed the line and in his own sense of depravity began to attack Father William.

Reagan watched, stunned, as the two men wrestled before Angus pinned Father William in one disjointed move. The priests pained gasps signaled that things had gone to far.

"Enough!" Reagan shouted as she approached them. "Leave him be! He is of no use to you!"

"Finally, there is something you and I agree upon!" Angus growled as he swiveled around to glare at her. He gave her a look so dark and frightening Reagan failed to recognize his intentions until it was too late.

He raised his arm and pointed a crooked finger in her direction, then he shouted; "WITCH!" Almost instantly the village came alive.

It was seconds before she knew what was really happening. The only thing that registered was the wild thump of her heart within her chest, the panicked breaths and the stuttering cries she emitted as she struggled against her captors. She barely saw the utter helpless and defeated look that crossed Father William's face as the crazed, witch-hungry crowd began to drag her kicking and screaming toward that unholy, completely terrifying sight in the middle of the courtyard. The stake.

It was this sight that spurned Reagan into action - that blatant symbol of death and torture made her want to live, to fight for her very survival. When the last of her cloak was ripped away by greedy, grasping claws she found the strength to scream the one name that meant everything to her as loudly and as forcefully as she could.

Once the last syllable was rung from her raw throat, it took her a moment to realize that it might have all been for naught. The fierce chanting ceased only for a second but the crowd's momentum did not. And her cry failed to produce the results she had so desperately wanted. Reagan struggled against their clutches, against the relentless tide of the crowd that pulled her unwillingly toward her death.

Fear slammed into her the instant she felt the wood press against her back. Her impassioned pleas for mercy stuck in her throat as they began to weave a rope tightly around her body in quick proficient knots. Brambles from the pyre jabbed at her feet and legs, scraping against her skin as she thrashed her limbs in her panic.

_This isn't happening_, she thought wildly. Perhaps she was trapped in some sort of nightmare unable to wake? When a fire-lit torch was passed from one hand to another, carried along the ever-watchful crowd waiting with baited breath, she had begun to think perhaps she had imagined hearing Lancelot's voice.

She watched in horror as a man gleefully set the torch to the dry bracken surrounding her feet. Almost instantly the weak flame grew stronger, and Reagan struggled against her bindings even as she choked on the thick, black smoke that drifted toward her.

"What is the meaning of this?!" A voice demanded. "Release her now!" She turned her head toward the sound, eyes watering from the sting of the smoke. Quickly her bindings were severed and she almost collapsed onto the burning bracken before she was swiftly pulled away from it. Strong arms wrapped around her waist pulling her toward the ground.

That was before she realized her dress was on fire. With a strangled shriek, Reagan began to beat frantically at the flames before two large hands quickly smothered them with his cloak. Looking up at her rescuer, Galahad gave her a brisk nod; his grey eyes glittered intensely in his pale face.

"Are you hurt? Are you burned?" he asked quickly, Reagan could only shake her head vehemently as she coughed uncontrollably from the smoke. Suddenly and without warning she was yanked off the ground and crushed against a solid chest. She had no need to look up to know who was holding her so fiercely.

The cold metal of Lancelot's breastplate pressed against her cheek and it was the most wonderful sensation Reagan could ever remember feeling. His hands were everywhere at once and she resisted the urge to pull from his grasp, knowing that he was only checking her for injuries. He thrust her from him abruptly, holding her at arms length and Reagan blinked her stinging eyes, trying to focus on his face.

"What has he done to you?" Lancelot asked in a tight voice as his dark eyes roved over her torn and burned dress before he focused on her throat. Gently he touched a trembling hand to the pale column of her neck, tracing the multiple mottled bruises. His expressive mouth turned downward into a tight frown and he stated darkly, "I should have killed him."

Reagan clutched at his forearms fearing that her keen sense of relief might cause her to collapse at any moment. Around them the intent murmurs of the crowd rose to such a din that her ears began to ring. She looked behind her only to find her father pushing his way forcefully toward her, practically clawing his way through the throng of stunned villagers.

"Devil's whore!" he shouted, the tinge of madness Reagan had noticed before returning in his voice. "She must be punished for her wickedness!" Someone else was following Angus, his movements fluid and forceful, and the crowd parted like the Red sea before him. When the villagers didn't respond to Angus' tirade, he tried again more desperately.

"She's a witch! She should burn for her crimes! Seize her!" He bellowed, seconds before an arm reached out and wrapped around his neck, throwing him to the ground. Reagan watched, stunned, as Lancelot's grip tightened around her reflexively drawing her back to his chest. Angus wheezed in pain, the breath knocked from him.

His eyes went wide with fear as Tristan hovered over him. The scout's face was stoic and calm as he placed his foot on Angus' chest dangerously close to his throat and causing painful pressure. Reaching backward for his bow Tristan notched an arrow so fast Reagan didn't have the time to blink.

Aiming directly for the space between Angus' eyes, Tristan held back as if he were studying his quarry. "I see the resemblance now. Would you like me to shoot him, Reagan?" His rough and lilting voice drifted toward her as her father whimpered in fear. Reagan pulled away from Lancelot's vice-like grip with obvious reluctance and approached the pair.

Reagan looked at her father whose eyes were practically going crossed trying to keep his eyes on the tip of the arrow. "No!" Angus whimpered, "Please, don't!" His pleas failed to stir her sympathy. Her face was devoid of emotion, any tender feelings she had for her father had faded. He had been ready to happily watch her burn minutes before and now Reagan was the one who would decide his fate.

"No, Tristan." She said in a strangled voice, and Angus' relief was palpable. She slowly lowered herself to Angus' level and bent toward him. He watched her every move without blinking. "Mother would be so disappointed in you." She offered with a sad smile before her expression quickly changed.

"I want you to know that from this moment on you can never hurt me or use me again," Reagan whispered very quietly so only he could hear. "Good bye, father."

She rose back up and looked directly at Tristan, blue eyes flashing. "Don't shoot to kill, shoot to maim. Make it a lasting wound. I want him to be reminded always that he can never come near me or anyone I care for again."

Tristan's lips curled into a semblance of a chilling smile at her acquiescence. Nodding once, Reagan knew he appreciated her request. Though she had no doubt that Tristan would have readily killed Angus without her intervention.

Angus' pleas were short lived and Tristan made quick work of her demand. Her father's anguished cry of pain barely stirred her pity. Reagan turned away, walking back to where Lancelot stood.

She glanced to the right of him and noticed that the pyre around the stake burned merrily, flames eating at the base of the stake where she had been tied, her stomach almost revolted at the sight. Catching her pained look, Lancelot gave a signal and Galahad's voice boomed throughout the courtyard ordering the now spellbound and shocked villagers into action, commanding that they fetch buckets of water and extinguish the fire quickly.

They hopped to obey scrambling one after the other; no one wanted to disobey these fearsome knights. Not after what they had just witnessed happening to Angus Darvey. Reagan reached a trembling hand toward Lancelot, he was quick to take it in his strong grasp, pulling her once again into the protective circle of his arms.

Reagan was dismayed to find that her cheeks were wet with tears. She wiped at her face with the backs of her hands and glanced up at him through watery eyes. He had a days' new growth of beard and his hair was windswept, but the dark shadows under his eyes were telling. He'd ridden all night to reach her, she realized. They all had.

"I was so worried for you," she said, wincing at the tremble in her voice. Lancelot placed his warm, calloused palm on the side of her face and looked at her with an incredulous expression.

"You were worried for me? You daft woman!" He scolded, before he scowled at her, concern crossing his features.

"Are you hurt? Did he..?" Lancelot struggled with the question and Reagan shook her head adamantly.

"I managed to break Rullus' nose," she bragged. "But not before I gave him a nice scar." She pressed her talisman into Lancelot's palm and the sly grin he gave her was something Reagan would always remember.

"It really did protect me, just as you promised it would." His face grew serious and his gentle grip tightened around her.

"I know I can't make you promise to obey me, but for the sake of my sanity and yours, promise," his voice broke with emotion, "swear you'll never leave my side again." Reagan felt herself nod unable to form a proper and worthy response to his plea.

"I swear it," she croaked and meant it. The spell was broken between them as their attention was drawn elsewhere Rullus the elder was standing at the steps of the villa, a few of his guards surrounding the estate as he surveyed the chaos that was his village. Stepping down, he approached a Lancelot warily. Both men glared at each other and Reagan couldn't help but notice how Lancelot visibly tensed in front of the older noble.

"You and your men have wreaked enough havoc here. You are no longer welcome in Waldenham. Were it not for the much needed grace of your king I would have had you hanged for this."

"Once I tell my king of the actions perpetuated by your son and condoned by you, Waldenham may no longer be yours to control," Lancelot countered, malice in his voice. It was a point the old Roman could not argue, although his eyes glittered with challenge and unspent fury.

"You have beaten my son nearly insensible, you have dishonored me in front of my serfs. I cannot abide your presence any longer. You have what you came here for. Take the woman and leave. Now." Reagan watched as Lancelot stepped closer to him, curiously wondering if the knight noticed how Rullus the elder shrank away slightly.

"I would have killed your son, were it not for my men. Be thankful that the wretch still breathes. We will leave in due course, do not fret. But you have my word old man-- I will not hesitate to kill your son or anyone else you send in his stead, should you seek to retribution for this day. And no one under the King's law can touch me."

Rullus the elder's lip curled in resentment at Lancelot's words, yet he knew everyone of them rang true. He could no more touch Lancelot than he could touch the moon and it sat ill with the older man. Biting back his retort and his pride he cast Reagan a scornful look before he stalked back up the steps of the villa.

"Leave before the sun sets or I shall set the hounds on you and your men!" He tossed over his shoulder and Lancelot's hands twitched at his side, obviously fighting the urge to reach for one of the blades resting on his back. Reagan reached for one of his fists and gave it a gentle squeeze, drawing his attention back to where it belonged.

"What did you do to Rullus, exactly?" Reagan wondered aloud before she caught sight of Lancelot's cracked and bleeding knuckles. He gave her a dark look and a wry grin.

"Nothing he didn't beg me to." Reagan stared at him intently, his sardonic reply completely lost on her.

"Reagan!" the frantic call of her name broke the tension between them and they spotted Father William as he jogged toward them, a slow but ambulatory Father Daniel trailing his wake.

"Thank God you're all right. I tried to get to you, but your father-"

"I know," Reagan interrupted the priest's rambling, before she flung herself into his arms. Holding him tightly she whispered, "Thank you."

Father William looked slightly taken aback before he carefully returned her embrace. They broke apart and Reagan noticed Father Daniel sizing up Lancelot. Reagan knew he cut a fine figure standing there in his battle armour, but the old man said nothing. His glare spoke volumes and Lancelot met it squarely with only the slightest raise of a dark questioning eyebrow.

"Do you love him, girl?" The question jarred her and Reagan turned to look at Father Daniel.

"With all my heart," she replied with complete sincerity and the priest nodded his consent.

"He's more comely than the other two, I'll give you that, but no less fierce I'd imagine."

"That I am not." Lancelot replied sharply.

"Good. You'll make pretty, troublesome children together, if you haven't already." The old man chuckled when Lancelot and Reagan paled slightly.

Thankfully they didn't have to make a reply to Father Daniel as their attention was diverted back toward the villa. Galahad had stepped toward the forefront, trying his best to direct the flow of water being carried in buckets from the town well. Tristan came to stand next to Lancelot and both priests gave the scout a wary glance.

"Your father will live," he stated simply as if he were talking of the weather. "Though he will wish he had not." Reagan felt a pang of something at his words, but she pushed it deep down.

Taking a breath, she turned to watch the villagers trying desperately to put out the flames. Galahad joined them shortly, slightly out of breath but looking no less worn and weary than the rest of them did.

"I've told them to dismantle it once the flames die down. No one dared to argue." Lancelot nodded then turned to both knights.

"Tristan, make sure the horses are ready. Galahad, see if you can't gather provisions enough for four people, we ride within the hour. I cannot stand the sight of this place a moment longer." Both men moved quickly to obey.

It seemed they too were ready to quit Waldenham. Reagan watched them stalk off in opposite directions wondering how she was ever going to thank them properly for their part in saving her.

Nodding at Lancelot in respect, Father William and Father Daniel stepped away and Reagan experienced a sudden pang of distress. She could not leave her priests, not when they had been so recently reunited.

Noticing Reagan's expression Father William turned back, a smile creasing his wrinkled countenance.

"Godspeed, Reagan," he called over his shoulder. She was reminded of that fateful day he had left her at the stables of Camelot, in the care of an ornery but kind stable master. Only this time she didn't feel quite so alone.

Looking back at Lancelot she glanced down to see his hand outstretched, his dark eyes glittering with expectancy, asking silently to take what he was offering. The man who had come to her rescue, her champion, her dark knight, the man who held her heart.

"Do you love me, Lancelot?" She asked, aware that he had never spoken the sentiment, but had shown her well enough. Reagan knew it was a silly thing to ask at such a time, but for some reason she couldn't help herself.

He blinked, but the look in his eyes never faded, his outstretched hand never wavered.

"I'm yours forever. Eternally," he added as if to reinforce the offer. "Does that please you?" He asked, his voice gruff as she slipped her hand in his.

Reagan smiled up at him as he drew her close. "Mine forever?" And he nodded sincerely at her question before she turned to meet his kiss. "My eternal knight, I like the sound of that."

**AN: OH THE CHEESE! OH THE ROMANCE! OH THE PROVERBIAL WITCH BURNING GONE WRONG! I'm such a sap of an author. I feel no shame ;) Actually, after the wonderful reception this ending got from my betas I felt I did the story justice. I smiled like a complete idiot when I wrote the last two pages of this chapter. Can you tell? Also, is it strange that I'm listening to _"I believe in a thing called love?"_**** by the Darkness as I post this chapter? **

**We're not done yet. Oh no! I couldn't just leave it there. There's still the epilogue- Ivy and Galahad get some much needed attention as well as Tristan. I grin like a fool as I think about the EVIL cliffhanger I have in store for you. The epilogue is coming dear readers, trust me on that one. **

**Until then, I can not express my gratitude to all of you that have stuck with me from the beginning. Special shout-outs to: Peachpagie, WitherRose(love you dear), Sian, Cricket05, Angel of the Night Watchers, Orangepeaches, Hazelelf1183, Maid Maleen, Valerie18, Truepinkluv24, Wander of the roads, PetieteJeanne, Sara Femme, Tragicure, x0Skay0x and to everyone who read/reviewed/and added alerts! You're encouragement was priceless! Thank you! **

**Stickelbatz **


	28. Chapter 28

**No money is being made from this. I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story. I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.**

**T****HANK YOU BETA TEAM! You know who you are :) **

**Reagan, Lancelot, Galahad and Ivy needed their Happily Ever Afters- They can stop bugging me now. WARNING! FLUFF AHEAD! Enjoy ~S**

"_They gave each other a smile with a future in it_."- **Ring Lardner**

Chapter 28 (epilogue)

"Oh Ivy!" Reagan exclaimed as Vanora gently placed a crown of brightly colored leaves intertwined with dried purple heather on her curls, "you look so lovely. Galahad won't know what to do with himself when he sees you tonight." At her words Ivy's pale face turned a distinct shade of green and she barely managed to cover her mouth with her hand before she darted to the washbasin on the other side of the room.

"I suspect he'll know what to do with himself," Vanora whispered to Reagan with sly smile. "The question is will she let him?"

"Apparently she did once already. The damage is done. It was a perfect way for Galahad to lead Ivy to the altar. Though you have to admire the man's determination." Reagan waggled her eyebrows at Vanora and the woman laughed.

Both Vanora and Reagan grimaced in sympathy at the sounds of Ivy's retching. After she had been given enough time, Vanora handed her a wet cloth to dab her face with and patted her on the shoulder reassuringly. Ivy abruptly turned around and glared at the other women.

"Stop talking about me like I'm not here!" She snapped. Reagan and Vanora wiped the smiles off their faces, biting the insides of their cheeks. "Not that it's any of your business, but I seduced him! A girl can only take so much wooing."

"It'll get better, dear. It always does, the first months are always the hardest." Vanora replied wisely, ignoring Ivy's outburst. The healer looked at the woman with narrowed eyes.

"It's only been a month and a half, you mean I have more of this to endure?" Vanora gave her a knowing grin, but sensibly kept her mouth shut. Ivy had been a bit on edge since she'd discovered she was expecting.

"Ivy, you're a _healer_, you would should know that better than anyone," Reagan chastised. Instead of walking on eggshells while in her presence Reagan had decided to treat her exactly as before. For some reason she suspected that her friend needed that. Vanora gave her as much advice as she could and Galahad treated her as if she were a fragile, precious thing. While it was sweet, it was completely irrational and Reagan could tell it drove Ivy crazy.

Ivy gave her a dark look in response and Reagan smiled despite herself. Vanora redirected the bride back in front of the dressing table, pushing her a bit too forcefully back onto the stool. After a few more moments of primping, fussing and making sure Ivy wasn't about to get sick again, Reagan and Vanora stepped back and surveyed their handiwork.

To say that Ivy looked beautiful would have been an understatement. The woman practically glowed and her bridal wear was made of nothing but the best fabrics. She looked resplendent in her cream and peach gown. The crown of autumn leaves and flowers offset the dress, and they both agreed that Ivy would be a sight to see walking down the aisle.

Reagan hadn't worn white to her own wedding which had taken place weeks before. Since it had been so hastily arranged she had not really had the time to choose her own gown. Instead she'd worn a dress of deep blue, spun from wool so fine and soft it had felt like silk against her skin. The yellow roses she'd had tucked into her short hair were the perfect accompaniment, not that it had mattered. The day had been a happy blur and the whirlwind of activities had left Reagan more than a little exhausted. Once the short ceremony and the celebrations afterward were over, Lancelot had divested her so quickly of her apparel Reagan doubted he'd even taken notice of how nice she looked. Not that she had minded.

Smothering a grin at the memory, Reagan helped to ready the bride for her walk.

Finn arrived to accompany them to the chapel, and Ivy looked at both women who gave her reassuring smiles and led the way. Very little was said as they stood in front of the large wooden doors. The sounds of people milling about and subdued conversation floated toward them as they waited. Finally the doors opened and the warm light of the chapel spilled out.

Everyone inside stood and turned to look at Ivy. Dagonet stepped toward them, placing himself next to the bride. Reagan braced herself, knowing full well how Ivy hated being the center of attention. A silly thing really; as a bride all eyes were on her and Reagan had hoped Ivy had prepared herself for this eventuality. Apparently she had, and gripping the hem of her gown with white knuckles, she reached for Dagonet's outstretched arm, her head tiled at a proud angle as the big man gently placed his hand over hers and began to walk her down the aisle toward the nervous yet eager looking groom.

Ivy and Galahad only had eyes for each other throughout the ceremony. When Reagan happily stepped aside and found her place next to her husband, Lancelot looked at her with his eyes glittering merrily and a smile pulling the corners of his mouth. He surreptitiously fisted a hand in her skirt, pulling her ever closer to his side. Reagan grinned at his not-so-subtle hint and reached for his hand, intertwining their fingers in answer, and as she turned to watch the bride and groom exchange vows she had to admit it really was a beautiful day for a wedding.

* * *

Lancelot was beginning to really enjoy weddings. The celebrations were in full swing and Lancelot watched with pride as Reagan managed to keep up with Arthur during one of the more spirited dances of the evening. Her red skirts swirled about her legs as she moved in time with the music. Her bright grin was telling enough and he could tell Arthur was enjoying himself immensely. Reagan's cheeks were red enough with exuberance to match her dress and Lancelot was once again struck anew at how comely his wife was.

"How can I get me one of those?" A grating, slightly slurred voice cut into his reverie and Lancelot turned with narrowed eyes to glare at Bors, who was clutching onto his tankard as if it were a lifeline.

"You have a woman. At least, the last time I checked you did. Has Vanora finally come to her senses? A pity, that, as I'm married. Gawain's been looking a bit lonely, though--do you think he's caught her eye?" Lancelot offered with a smirk, watching in satisfaction as Bors' expression twisted in disgust before he scanned the crowed room and spotted Vanora prying one of their many children off the other. It seemed that the mother hen was always breaking up a fight. Vanora and Bors' children had "spirit," as Reagan liked to call it. _Spirit indeed_, Lancelot thought, _they were insane to have so many in the first place_.

"Not a woman, you ponce. I keep my Van satisfied." Bors sneered before jabbing a finger toward his chest. "I want one of those fancy tunics you're always wearing." A genuine smile spread across his face as Lancelot looked down to see exactly which 'fancy' tunic he was wearing at present that had caught Bors' eye. He couldn't fault the man's taste. Reagan's latest creation was one of her finest and he was proud to be wearing one of his many newly embellished black tunics. Well, that and it had been a bit of a dare on her part. She didn't think he had the stones to wear such a frivolous concoction to a courtly affair. Lancelot was determined to prove her wrong and while the bright yellow coneflowers that adorned his sleeves and hem didn't suit his taste they apparently did Bors'.

"You like this, do you?" he asked plucking at the tunic, unable to disguise the mirth in his voice.

"Yeah." Bors answered plainly. "Do you think Reagan would make one for me?"

But before Lancelot could answer Gawain and Dagonet joined them, drinks in hand, and passing one to Lancelot, sat down without ceremony.

"Well, Gal's finally done it. Got himself shackled, just like you," Gawain pointed his half full glass at Lancelot, his upper lip curling. "Sorry sods, the both of you," he stated bitterly before proceeding to drink his goblet dry.

"Gawain doesn't really mean that," Dagonet offered, trying to smooth whatever tension was brewing. Gawain was spoiling for a fight and Lancelot wouldn't be the one to give it to him.

"You keep your grubby paws off my Vanora!" Bors shouted and Gawain choked on his drink, obviously caught off guard by the comment.

"What in the name of the Gods are you on about, you drunken ass?" The blond man asked, undoubtedly nonplussed.

"You know _exactly_ what I mean. I'm watching you…" Bors' threat trailed off as Vanora approached him looking harassed and exhausted.

"Get up! We're leaving. Now!" Her sharp tone was enough to break through Bors' haze of alcohol; the alarmed look that crossed his features was almost amusing. It was clearly understood who was in charge when the burly man didn't hesitate to obey.

The dance ended just as Vanora dragged Bors away, and a slightly out of breath Reagan shuffled toward the table. Lancelot pulled her down next to him, forcing Gawain to scoot across the bench in the opposite direction. Dagonet, ever the gentlemen, offered the very winded Reagan a drink, which she heartily accepted.

After finishing her goblet and making a good attempt at Lancelot's, Reagan looked around the hall and noticed that one person in particular was missing from the festivities. She had spotted Tristan hovering near the back of the chapel during the ceremony but she'd not seen hide or hair of him since.

"Has any one seen Tristan?" she asked with as much innocent inflection as she could muster. Dagonet shrugged his shoulders, while Gawain managed to polish off another goblet of wine in one long swallow. Lancelot gave her a sidelong look and half smiled at her question.

"Probably wandering that bloody forest again. You remember, the one you're not supposed to go into." Reagan rolled her eyes at him. Gawain slammed down his goblet and wiped his mouth on his sleeve drawing their attention his way before she could form a sharp retort.

"He's always in the forest these days," he exclaimed, leaning on his forearms as if he were imparting a great secret to the three of them nearby. "He says there's something in there'." Gawain lowered his voice and wiggled his tawny eyebrows for effect and Reagan couldn't help but laugh.

"What? Like trees, for instance?" Lancelot asked incredulously before he added, "oh yes, the _mist_." He whispered the last word as if it were a curse and Reagan looked at her husband curiously.

"What mist? What are you talking about? Isn't fog a common occurrence, especially this time of year?" Gawain scoffed at her question, while Lancelot remained studiously and uncharacteristically silent. Dagonet gave both his brothers-in-arms a long-suffering glance.

"Not according to Tristan, Reagan. I think its best to give him the benefit of the doubt. I can't remember the last time I've seen Tristan so…" the knight paused as if searching for the right word, "distracted." Gawain gave a great bark of laughter at Dagonet's words before he patted the healer heartily on the back. The movement barely made the big man flinch.

"_Distracted _is a nice way of putting it. Did you know a few days ago after I'd managed to ply him with a few tankards, he told he he'd heard a woman singing while he'd been hunting. _Singing_, in the forest, at the first light of dawn. Apparently when he went to investigate the source he came up empty handed. Can you imagine?"

No one had any reply to this and Reagan found herself wondering if indeed there was someone playing tricks on the scout. No woman in her right mind would openly court the wrath of Tristan, but there were some that would go to great lengths to garner his fickle attention. Lancelot waved Gawain away in disbelief before returning his attention to his wife.

"Are you going to worry about Tristan's desire to roam about a forest all night? Or would you like to dance with your husband?"

Lancelot looked to the dancers having a merry time before them, as if to provide an example and Reagan watched as Ivy and Galahad raised their goblets toward them from the other side of the room. Reaching for his outstretched hand, Reagan didn't hesitate, and was in fact surprised to find herself pulling Lancelot behind her in her haste to join the others in having such a good time.

Soon enough caught up in the rhythm of the dancers and the fluid graceful movements of her dancing partner, all thoughts of mysterious mists and taciturn, solitary scouts were forgotten. As Lancelot turned and reached for her, Reagan relished the feel of his strong warm body against hers and knew a feeling of timelesness so strong she knew she'd remember this simple moment her entire life.

Gazing up into his smoldering dark eyes, Reagan wondered how she'd gotten so lucky. Lancelot gave her a lupine grin as if reading her thoughts, before wrapping his hand firmly around hers and pulling her behind him. Leaving the raucous festivities behind them Reagan felt herself smile and knew they were about to start a whole new kind of dance. She hurried behind him to keep up with his haste not wanting to miss a moment.

**AN: Things have changed slightly since I promised you a cliffhanger in the last chapter. Don't worry you'll still get it, but you might have to go back to the main story page to find out where it is *wink* Go on, take a look after you've read this short fluff-tastic epilogue. You know you want to :) Ah Tristan, you didn't think you'd escape my clutches for long did you? Please, if you haven't already let me know what you think now that "complete" is finally stamped on this story. I would love to hear from you! **


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